I take Dad’s hand and lean in. “Then you know there’s no way to keep me safe. You can’t protect me from him. We have to fight.”
He grumbles, something incoherent and angry.
“Somehow what happened all those years ago is connected to what’s going on now. And we need to figure out how. Mom would want us to.”
“That’s cheating,” Dad says.
“I know, but you want to know what happened to her after Virtue took her from the fire. I want to know. I need to know. And these dreams are going to help us. But I was only three when Mom disappeared, and I need you.”
“To do what?”
“Help me fill in the blanks. I know Mom was being treated at a Portland hospital. Why not here? Why not in Bend?”
“Portland has better doctors, better treatment facilities. No mystery there.”
“Okay.” I figured it was the Prince’s halo
“How’d you know about the waiting room?”
“I dreamed it,” I say, plowing ahead. “Mom was really sick, Olivia was drawing a unicorn, wearing a necklace . . .”
Beneath a fringe of fur, Dad’s bottom lip trembles. I pause. It’s too much, I think. Dad’s not ready for this, but he wipes his chin with a callous hand and clears his throat. “I wish I’d saved the necklace. Your mom loved that thing.”
“This necklace?” I ask, pulling the beaded rope from beneath my collar.
Dad’s mouth gapes and he leans forward, taking the wooden flower in his fingers. “Where’d you get this?”
“Jake found it. At the graveside after . . . everything.” Technically it was in a tree, but he doesn’t need the details right now. “Why’d you bury it?”
He runs a thick finger over the fading paint of the plumeria. “I couldn’t stand to see the thing. In those last days it was always around her neck, tangling in the cords and IVs. But she kept it on because the girl asked her to.”
“Olivia?”
“Still seems strange that they’re one and the same, but yeah. Liv gave it to her. Told her to wear it for luck or some such nonsense. When your mom disappeared, she left it behind. Some luck, huh?”
I think about the memory Virtue gave me, the waking dream I had while standing in the orchard. I was wearing the necklace when Virtue took Mom. Me. Three-year-old me.
“Why’d they stay in contact?” I ask. “Mom and Olivia?”
“She was always there, at the hospital. Drawing or reading. Her mom worked there.”
“With cancer patients?”
“Only on occasion. I think she was in the maternity ward or something. Pediatrics, maybe? Totally different floor. But that little girl wandered the hospital while her mom worked. Kind of sad, really, but safer than staying home alone, I guess. She and your mom built a friendship. There are letters around here somewhere. Found them when I was looking for the camera.”
“Letters from whom?”
“From Liv to your mom. When your mom moved back home, they became pen pals of a sort. Liv kept writing, even after your mother was gone. I probably should have opened them, should have written back, but I didn’t have it in me. If you think they’ll help, I’m sure I can find them again. I was drunk the first time, though, so I might need to down a couple first. You know, retrace my footsteps.”
“Not a chance.”
“It was a joke, kid.”
“A bad one.”
“Yeah, well.” He sighs. “You want the letters, you got them. What else can I do?”
“You can ease up on Jake,” I say.
“Talk about cheating. That’s worse than wishing for more wishes.”
“I love him.” I’ve said it to Jake, might as well tell Dad.
Dad laughs, really he chokes out this laugh-snort combo thing. “You think I don’t know. I do. I remember what it’s like. But you need to think this through. Really think, too, ’cause this world, this craziness that he’s brought to Stratus, doesn’t hang around every guy. And you’d have your pick, baby. Trust me. Finding another looker wouldn’t be a problem. Especially if you took that scholarship, moved out East. All those college boys. I bet there are entire schools of them who don’t think a thing about angels or demons. Thousands who’d cut off their left leg to be with you.”
My face flushes—I feel it, the anger, the frustration. But I know Dad’s just being Dad. Just being honest. Trying to help.
“Jake didn’t cut off a leg, that’s true. But he healed my ankle. He introduced me to the God who created everything, to the God Mom loved. He healed your shoulder, Dad, and if he and Canaan hadn’t been here the other day, odds are fairly good you’d be dead.”
Dad watches me for a bit, his brows casting his eyes in shadow. He takes a swig of milk, swishes it around his mouth and then swallows. He wipes his hands on his pants and pulls an ancient BlackBerry from his chest pocket. He should get an award for hanging on to that thing for so long.
“Who are you calling?” I ask, trying not to be offended that he’s busted out a phone in the middle of our conversation.
“Not calling,” he says. “It’s vibrating.”
“Who is it?”
“Hush, nosy.”
25
Brielle
I feel like I’ve been hit with a baseball bat, run into an electric fence. Dad’s words couldn’t have caught me more off guard. “What? When?”
“Today,” Dad says. “This afternoon sometime. Out at Crooked Leg Bridge.”
A car accident at Crooked Leg Bridge? That can’t be a coincidence.
“But it was supposed to be you,” I say. “He said it was you.”
“I’m sorry, baby. What?”
“Never . . . never mind.” There’s too much light a$ sow entirelynd not enough air, but Jake squeezes my shoulders and I find center again.
“Elle, you okay?” Dad asks, climbing up next to me. “You need a drink or something?”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. I just . . . Tell me what happened?”
He leans back, the truck creaking under his weight. “She was driving that old minivan of hers, picking up girls for that whatchamacallit you ballerinas always insist on going to this time of year.”
“Dance camp.” I totally forgot that started today. Miss Macy’s Dance Academy is one of the many sponsors. Every year she loads up as many little dancers as she can and carts them off to a ballerina boot camp in the city. “Was anybody hurt?”
“They all were, baby. Miss Macy came out of surgery about an hour ago, Mike said. They removed her spleen, but she’s still unconscious. Hasn’t been conscious since they wheeled her in. Whacked her head pretty bad, I guess. Won’t know how bad it is until she wakes.”
Dad’s trying to be gentle. He is. But every word he says cuts. Deep. I can’t lose Miss Macy. There’s no way.
“What about the girls?” I ask, needing something positive to cling to. I wrack my brain, trying to remember who all had signed up to go. “She was taking Sharon Wilkie and the Sadler twins. And um . . . the new girl from the intermediate class, just moved here with her family. Tall, great feet . . .”
“Regina Glascoe,” Dad says. “Her dad works at the mill.”
“That’s right,” I say, remembering.
Dad glances at Jake and then back at me. “They don’t think Regina’s going to make it.”
Fear bubbles from my nose. I swipe at it with my hands, try to pry it off my face, but it’s thick. I watch as it presses through my fingers and slides down my arms.
“I called you for a reason, kid,” Dad barks at Jake. “Hold her hand or something.”
Jake takes my hand, and I hear him praying under his breath. The fear doesn’t stop, but it slows a little.
“The older girl, Sharon, she’s all right. Broke her collarbone, but they’ll probably release her tomorrow.”
“And the Sadler twins?” I ask.
“Doctors don’t know,” Dad says. “They’re still running tests.”
“Where are they?”
“Regina was l
ife-flighted to Portland, but the others are at Stratus General.”
“I have to get over& those owpD; there,” I say, swinging my legs over the tailgate.
“Hop in the truck,” Dad says. “I’ll drive.”
The ride to the hospital isn’t a long one—Stratus General is just past the high school—but it seems to take forever. If it weren’t for the Palatine here, the war raging overhead, if it weren’t for all of that, maybe Canaan or Helene would have been able to stop the accident. Maybe they could have prevented this tragedy.
I’m crammed between Jake and my dad. The rattle of the truck is all the noise there is—that and the gurgling black tar that’s everywhere. Jake strokes my hand, still praying. Always praying.
I wish I could stop seeing the fear. And it’s not just mine anymore. It bleeds from all three of us, filling the floor of the truck, multiplying, leeching off our misery. Seeing how thick it is, how miserable we are, makes it all so much harder. Even the golden halo on my wrist isn’t much help. I close my eyes and press my head against the seat back.
Regina’s not going to make it. Twelve years old, and dead on her way to dance camp. What a waste. What a stupid, unnecessary waste. Did the Prince do this? Did he do it to force me into his halo?
Is Regina going to die because of me?
I make Dad pull over so I can vomit. I climb over Jake and into the overgrown grass on the side of the highway. There’s a hill here. A few missteps and you could tumble a good hundred feet or more without finding a thing to slow your descent. It’s tempting to try it. But Jake runs a warm hand up my back and hands me an old shirt that smells like the cab of Dad’s truck. I wipe my face on it and fling it into the bed.
“You okay?” Jake asks.
“No,” I say. Over his shoulder I see the fear spilling out the open door and onto the street. I see Dad’s head pressed to the steering wheel. “It can’t be a coincidence. A car accident on Crooked Leg Bridge the day I decided not to wear the Prince’s halo? It’s my fault the girls are in danger. My fault some of them may die.”
“That’s a stretch, Elle.”
“No,” I tell him, certain, adamant. “No, it’s not. The Prince showed me this. In Danakil. He showed me a car accident on the bridge, but it wasn’t Miss Macy. It was my dad. He was dying and there was no one here to save him. And that’s . . . that’s why I agreed to talk to the Prince. To answer his questions. Because he said he could fix it. He showed me, Jake.”
Jake’s eyes close. “It wasn’t real, Elle.”
“I know! But it was a threat. I see that now. It was a threat disguised as . . . as . . . something else. As help. He wanted me to feel indebted. And I did. I fell for it.”
I want him to tell me it could very well be a coincidence, but Jake doesn’t believe in coincidences, and he’&liinows not going to lie to me. Not again.
He grabs my shoulders now, his hazel eyes dazzling in the dying sunlight.
“It’s still not your fault. We’re each responsible for our actions. You for yours and the Prince for his. He’s a created being just like you. Just like me. And he will answer for his sins.”
He’s fierce when he’s like this, and I love him for it.
“We need to go,” he says, taking my chin in his hand. “I’d like to see if I can help.”
Of course! I can’t believe I forgot about his gift. About his hands.
“Oh my gosh, yes. Let’s go.”
We wade through the long grass and back to the truck. And for the last four minutes of the drive, there’s hope. That we could make a difference. That even if this is my fault, Jake could make it better. Could make them better.
Dad drops us at the sliding glass doors of the hospital and leaves to park the truck. I rush inside, Jake behind me. Pastor Noah and Becky meet us in the waiting room. They’ve been here for a while, I can tell. Sharon’s little brother sits at a small table at Becky’s side with a portable DVD player and earphones.
“His mother ran to the cafeteria,” Becky explains.
“What about the other girls?” I ask.
“It’s a waiting game with the twins,” Pastor Noah says. “A couple broken bones and lacerations, but they haven’t been able to wake them.”
“And Miss Macy?”
“She’s awake,” says a voice behind me.
I startle and turn. I’m face-to-face with a doctor who looks remarkably like the giant orangutan at the Oregon Zoo. His arms are too long for his round body, his eyes are closely set, and his red beard is patchy. But he has a kind smile. “Brielle, I assume?”
“Yes,” I say. “Can I see her?”
He nods. “She’s asking for you. But just for a few minutes, all right? She needs to rest.”
“Is she okay?”
“Seems to be. She can live without her spleen. We’ll keep her for a while. Observation and recovery. She’s got a drain in, so be careful with her.”
“Of course.”
Miss Macy looks very small and frail in her hospital bed. I enter, Jake by my side. The doctor almost didn’t let him come with me, but I can be rather persuasive when I need to be.
“Elle, sweetness.” Her voice is small and hoarse, but I burst into tears at the sound of it. “Now, stop that,” she says, her words coming in short, raspy chunks. “I need you to tell me about the girls. That monkey man wasn’t the least bit helpful. And this little gal here is under doctor’s orders not to tell me a thing.” She’s talking about a candy striper stacking supplies in the cabinet beyond her bed.
“I’m a good soldier,” the girl says with a little salute, “but if you’d like to update her, I won’t say a thing to Dr. Olsen.”
Jake gives me a look that doesn’t take a genius to decode. He can’t touch Miss Macy’s stomach with the candy striper here. Can’t even try.
“Come on, Elle,” she says. “Spill it.”
I tell her because I can’t lie to her. Not well, anyway. But I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d lied or sent someone else in first, because the first thing that happens when I tell her about Regina is that fear gushes from her chest. Black and soupy. It runs down her stomach and onto the bed, pooling where the bed is folded and then dripping in rivulets to the floor. Her hands, jammed with IVs, tremble and her shoulders shake.
“We’re going to do everything we can,” Jake says. It’s a weird thing to say. Especially to Miss Macy, who knows nothing about Jake’s gift. But it doesn’t faze her. She’s always thought Jake had superpowers.
“You know what you can do? You can pray.” She looks nearly as fierce as Jake did just minutes ago alongside the highway. “When we pray, things happen. Strange things. Miraculous things. You pray, young man. And you don’t stop.”
I hear her words but can’t keep my eyes off the fear. Her fear. My fear. It’s all mingling. Even the candy striper adds her own to the slick mess on the floor. Before I can gather myself enough to answer, we’re interrupted by a nurse who shuffles in with a tray of needles.
“I’m going to need you two to head on out now. This wonderful lady here’s got some recuperating to do.”
I lean in to kiss Miss Macy on the cheek, everything about me slow and weighted down by fear.
Jake takes my hand and leads me out the door. “She’ll be all right,” he whispers. “If I was concerned at all I would have done it anyway.”
“Okay.” That’s all I can manage right now.
“Let’s see if we can get in to see the girls,” he says.
But our efforts are blocked. We’re allowed a glimpse of the twins through a pane of glass, but the doctors are running tests and everyone’s been asked to wait outside. We stand with their parents for a while. Both of them are so bound by fear they can barely stand. Mrs. Sadler is hunched over, hugging her abdomen, the fear leaking through every meager gap. Her husband rubs her shoulders,&s D1A his arms shaking, his shoulders trembling with the black weight pressing down on him.
He smiles at me though. When I talk. When I say hopeful things. And
yet, the fear still runs. I wish again and again that I didn’t have to see the fear. That I could let myself believe this man isn’t entirely void of hope. But as I watch, as I listen to the tragic best-case scenario Dr. Olsen’s painted for them, I can’t help but succumb to the fear myself. It’s not fair for these two little girls to lose their lives. Not fair to them and their futures, not fair to their parents.
When Mr. Sadler runs out of words, Jake and I stand by him and his wife in silence. We watch the little girls sleep, their chests moving up and down, helped by the machines on either side of them. Tia has one arm in a bright pink cast, and Pria’s leg is in traction. But with their orange hair splayed across their white pillows, both remind me of Helene’s celestial form. Small. Fragile. I pray they have some of her strength. Some of her fight.
Jake presses a hand against the window. I know he’s praying, but fear marks every single one of his movements: a smear on the glass, a shoe print on the floor. He wants to fix them so badly. I know he does.
Eventually we’re shooed away from the viewing area as well. “Family only,” the doctor says. I squeeze Mrs. Sadler’s shoulder and we go, Jake’s hand burning hot in mine. There’s nothing more we can do here. Nothing more to say.
Before we leave, and even though visiting hours are over, we slip into Sharon’s room. She’s alone, her neck in a brace, her arm in a sling, staring at a muted television.
“Hey, Sharon,” I say, trying to remember if she’s just turned thirteen or fourteen.
“Miss Brielle? What are you doing here?”
“Checking on you, of course.” I try to smile. Try to inflect something other than sadness. Where the other rooms were full of fear, this one is drenched in the waters of misery. It runs down her face like tears, soaking her sheets, splashing to the floor.
“I’m okay. Better than Regina, at least. If I hadn’t called shotgun,” she says, her voice warbling, “if I hadn’t taken the front seat, maybe she’d be okay.”
I want to hug her, but my hands are thick with fear. I’m afraid to touch her, afraid to pass it along, so I wrap my arms around myself and try to pray. But it’s so hard.
Jake reaches out, takes her hand. “Don’t give up on her,” he says.
Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel) Page 18
