Stealthy Steps

by Vikki Kestell

  “Hi, yourself.”

  No! She was playing me!

  Apprehension sunk its claws into my throat. Genie had a long, colorful history of taking from me. If something were good, if I cared about it, if I loved it, she would take it—just because she could. And if, by some chance, she couldn’t take it? She would destroy it.

  Please! Please don’t let her hurt Zander! I don’t care what he used to be—that’s not him anymore. Please don’t let her hurt him! I didn’t know what I was admitting to or whom I was asking, but I was far beyond “asking.” I was begging.

  What happened next was nothing short of amazing.

  Zander tipped his head to one side and his calm gray eyes considered her. After a moment, he asked, “May I help you?”

  He was significantly less cordial.

  My jaw dropped.

  “Why, whatever do you mean?” Genie was still playing the role. She smiled that bright, radiant smile, the one that had lured many to shipwreck.

  “What I mean is this is Gemma Keyes’ house. You aren’t Gemma. I’m asking what you’re doing peeking in her windows.” He glanced toward the open back door, then put his hands on his hips. “And what you’re doing in her house.”

  Too many facets! I didn’t know this Zander, either—this cool, unshaken man demanding answers from my evil twin. He was neither the “macho, in-your-face gangster” I’d seen with Mateo, nor the kind gentleman he’d been with me. No, this man was unfazed. Authoritative. Impervious. I didn’t know whether I was more amazed at his immunity to Genie’s wiles or thrilled over his standing up for me.

  And how in the world had he known that she wasn’t me?

  Genie’s smile lost wattage. “If you knew Gemma, then you’d know that I’m her sister.”

  “Yes, so you’re Genie. She’s mentioned you. You don’t live in Albuquerque, so you’ve obviously come for a visit. Except I doubt Gemma knew you were coming, or she would be here and you wouldn’t be looking for her.”

  He crooked an eyebrow. “In any event, she isn’t home at present, so I’m asking—again—what you are doing?” He glanced a second time at my open back door. “Did you break into her house?”

  I was astounded. Astounded.

  Genie’s expression darkened and she dodged his demand. “Do you know where Gemma is?”

  “Miss, I appreciate that you are Gemma’s sister, but I believe you have entered her house in her absence without her permission. You’re a lawyer. I’m sure you understand what will happen when I call the police.”

  Not if, but when. My heart swelled—and then clenched. No! Don’t call the police, Zander! Don’t!

  “And you are?” Genie, mistress of aggression, swaggered toward Zander—intent on invading his personal space—but I’d seen him nose-to-nose with a hardened gangster. Genie may have met her match.

  Woot!

  Zander didn’t budge. If anything, he leaned forward, mirroring Genie’s posture, enunciating each word, “I’m her pastor.”

  Folks, I did not see that coming.

  I had never thought of him as my pastor! I hadn’t decided exactly what he was to me, but absolutely not that.

  Genie’s lips parted a bit. She was as surprised as I was, but nowhere as disappointed.

  “I see.”

  No, she didn’t.

  “I suggest you take your leave, Miss Keyes. I’ll let Gemma know you were here. In her house.”

  Genie’s lip curled. “You do that.”

  Without another word, she straightened her shoulders and clicked to the sedan parked in my driveway. Her head swiveled toward Mrs. Calderón’s window. The face peering through it disappeared.

  I stood in my back doorway, stunned and hurt. My heart had been lifted up and then slammed to the ground.

  I automatically moved toward the front of the house as Zander came inside. The mites were chirping softly, concerned, but not overmuch. Just being themselves around other people, I guess.

  Zander stood in the living room. “Gemma? You can come out now. She’s gone.”

  He thought I was hiding from Genie. I was disappointed and, frankly, I didn’t care anymore. I would be gone soon, anyway.

  “Don’t turn around,” I whispered.

  He jumped a little and started to turn.

  “No. Don’t.”

  That stopped him.

  “Keep facing that way, please—ow!”

  In less time than it took for me to speak ten words, the mites went from unruffled and unconcerned to ballistic protest. They were stinging me!

  “Nano. Stop it!”

  Zander’s head swiveled a little before he caught himself. He took a breath. “I’m sorry; were you talking to me, Gemma?”

  The mites switched from stings to stabbing noise. They were voting a great, big, fat no on Zander. I ignored them as best I could, but it was hard—the shooting pangs were blinding.

  “No, don’t worry about it,” I temporized. What was I going to say next? Did it matter? It didn’t feel like it mattered anymore. I kneaded my aching eyes and throbbing temples.

  “Thank you for getting rid of Genie.” I glanced out the window, but her car had long since roared out of our cul-de-sac. “How . . . how did you know she wasn’t me?” I was a little curious about that.

  Zander shrugged. “Call it discernment.”

  “Um, discernment?” I shook my head. I didn’t understand.

  He must have sensed my confusion. “She might look like you on the outside, but she isn’t you on the inside. At all. I could feel that.”

  “Oh.”

  It was an odd situation, Zander talking to me over his shoulder. I didn’t know where to go next. He did.

  “Gemma, you haven’t told me much about Genie, but I got the distinct impression that she had hurt you in the past. Hurt you deeply. Am I right?”

  I sighed and gritted my teeth. The stabbing pains in the back of my head were like sharp knives.

  He turned his head toward me, just a little. “As soon as I realized who she was, I wanted to get her away from you. I don’t want her to hurt you again, Gemma.”

  “I-I, um, thank you.” Tears clogged my voice. I couldn’t stop them; I hurt everywhere.

  “Gemma, may I please turn around? I haven’t seen you in so long.”

  “No.”

  No, Pastor Cruz, I bristled. No, you can’t see me anymore.

  An edge crept into his voice. “Gemma, tell me what is wrong! I am worried sick about you.”

  I urged myself to buck up. Be tough. Realistic. “Pastor Cruz, I thank you for everything you’ve done for me the past few months. You’ve been a great, um, friend and all—”

  “Friend?” His voice was incredulous.

  “All right, you’ve been a great pastor.”

  I didn’t realize I was signing up to be “pastored,” but all right.

  Whatever.

  He put a hand to his face and chuckled a little—which really teed me off.

  “What’s so stinking funny?”

  “You, Gemma! Didn’t you hear what I said earlier? I just wanted to get her away from you, away from your house, away from us—so I told her I was your pastor. Surely you didn’t want me to say I was your, er, friend? Maybe more than a friend?”

  Soooo much. So much was prancing and gamboling about in my tiny pea brain—like a happy, singing episode of My Little Pony, complete with pink and purple dancing unicorns. So many words and thoughts competing with the nanomites and their incessant, mushrooming clamor.

  “You said that ‘I’m her pastor’ part to get rid of her?” My jaw was clamped so hard it was difficult to get the words out.

  “Of course. I don’t know your sister, Gemma, but one up-close-and-personal encounter told me a lot. I don’t mean to disparage her, but she’s sort of scary, don’t you think? I don’t want her to scare you anymore.”

  Oceans of emotions collided and jumbled up in my heart, overwhelming me. I was distracted, though. The mites simply would not shut u
p.

  “Gemma, may I turn around now?”

  The mites lodged their collective vote by ratcheting up the racket. I bit back a groan. Besides, I hadn’t completely bought into Zander’s, “Maybe more than a friend” bit—after all, I grew up in church, remember? He was a full-on believer; I wasn’t. End of story.

  There could be no “more than friends” between us. Not ever.

  Nothing had changed. If anything, the situation was worse.

  “No, Zander. I can’t let you.”

  The mites’ hum intensified and strengthened, as when they’d fried the rattlesnake behind the rock outcropping: The many hums were becoming one, and I grew alarmed.

  A disturbing question rose to the surface. Would they hurt Zander?

  I couldn’t stop the single sob that burbled out. My head was caving in from the pain, the mites’ hammering dissonance was intensifying—and I was growing weaker. I could barely stand.

  Zander persisted, and asked over his shoulder, “Can’t you at least tell me why? Can’t you tell me what is going on?”

  I wanted to. I wanted so badly to tell him. Tell him everything. But I was so tired.

  When I didn’t answer, he added, “This is driving me nuts, Gemma, this secrecy thing you’re doing, not allowing me or anyone to see you. I know we don’t have a long history, but I hope you trust me. I hope you know I only want what is best for you?”

  I didn’t respond. It couldn’t have been later than noon, yet already I was weary. Worn, inside and out. Exhausted. Out of habit, I picked up the extension cord.

  The mites did not “latch” on.

  A slow comprehension rolled over me: The mites were draining me. Intentionally draining me. Could they sense that my resolve to keep them a secret was slipping? Did they think that Zander posed a risk so great that they were taking steps to shut me up? Shut me down?

  I struggled to stay focused as the drain overspread my body. I knew I couldn’t win against them, but my stubborn heart refused to bend to their will.

  Nano, you know nothing about the human need for freedom—especially our most basic and primal need, the freedom to choose. What you are doing to keep me silent and compliant? What you are doing to shut me up? It won’t work. It won’t have the effect you hoped for.

  Just the opposite.

  You will never control me.

  I would rather die.

  I whispered to Zander. “If I tell you, if I show you, you can never tell anyone. Ever.”

  The mites kicked into a higher gear. My head was bursting, and I beat it with my hands; I beat it in a feeble attempt to stifle the pain.

  “Nano, no! I’m going to tell him—you can’t stop me. Stop hurting me! STOP IT!”

  I crumbled to the floor, sobbing, “Nano! STOP IT!” I curled into a ball, hugging the agony to myself.

  The roaring noise faded; in its absence, the room spun and whirled. The mites’ silence, though, was not enough: No strength remained in my body, not even enough to lift my head or a hand.

  The mites’ attack had crushed me. They had gone too far. The tide was sucking and pulling at me as it withdrew. I quivered helplessly; my life was draining away.

  From a far distance, I heard Zander’s panic-stricken voice calling my name. His voice grew fainter.

  So this is it.

  My lungs no longer moved. I could hear my heart thundering, fast and frantic. Tiny points of light exploded behind my closed eyelids. I had a sense of floating, of flickering.

  Wisps of cool air tickled my arm and touched my fingers.

  The thudding of my heart slowed. The breeze on my skin slowed. My thoughts slowed. One nagging regret lingered. I’m not ready to die. Not ready.

  The breeze caressing my skin turned, reversed direction. A warm oily pressure followed it up my arm, into my shoulder. Heat overspread my chest and face. The heat rolled across my body into my other arm, down my legs to my feet.

  I shuddered and gasped. Life-giving air entered my lungs.

  “Gemma! Gemma, where are you?” He was feeling around on the floor, very near me.

  “Here . . .” I didn’t expect him to hear me; I couldn’t manage more than a whisper.

  “Gemma?”

  I squeaked something unintelligible.

  His hands found my arm, my shoulder. He said something in Spanish that conveyed alarm. “Gemma, are you all right?”

  Surely he knew I wasn’t all right, didn’t he? I guess it was just the first thing that popped out of his mouth.

  “Help . . . sit up . . .” I whispered.

  Zander slid an arm under me and lifted me up. I wobbled against his shoulder and chest, but I was breathing, drawing in oxygen. Life. Life was trickling back into me.

  I don’t know how long Zander propped me up so I could breathe easier. I drifted in and out of consciousness until I strengthened and my thinking became coherent again. Zander was praying in a soft voice for me, but I knew it would take hours to fully recover from the mites’ drain.

  Speaking of the mites, they were quiet. Eerily so.

  Another confab. Another threat analysis. Another decision forthcoming. I should have been concerned, but I didn’t have the strength to be.

  Zander supported me for a long while until I was able to shift my weight to lean against a leg of the table.

  “Bet you’re . . . pretty freaked out?”

  Zander sat back on his heels, but he didn’t let go of my hand. Maybe he thought he’d lose track of where I was if he let go.

  “Um, yeah. I’m not taking that bet.”

  I laughed, then coughed and convulsed. I hardly had the strength to breathe in. Breathe out. “W-water?” I gasped.

  “Um . . .”

  I was right—he was afraid to let go of me. Afraid this all wasn’t real.

  “I’ll be . . . here . . .” Three words and I was empty again.

  The warmth wasn’t flowing through me anymore. The nanomites had stopped fetching power for me.

  Why did they drain me and then, at the last second, revive me?

  I felt certain of the answer. They brought me back from the brink, but are keeping me down until they decide on an appropriately “safe” course of action.

  I sneered at them. Tiny tyrants!

  “Hand me . . . that . . .” I couldn’t finish my thought.

  “Hand you what?” Zander squeezed my hand. “Don’t faint on me, Gemma. What do you need?”

  “Cord,” I wheezed.

  He picked up the end of the extension cord with his other hand and held it in front of me. “This? I—”

  The mites shot down my arm, out my hand and into his, through his body, and onto the cord. Zander jerked and tried to yank his hand from mine, but the mites kept the connection.

  Energy flowed into me. It coursed from the cord, through Zander, through our joined hands, into my body. Zander couldn’t let go of my hand or the extension cord, no matter how badly he wanted to—and I figured he wanted to pretty badly right about then.

  So. The mites must have finished their confab.

  “About time,” I whispered to them.

  Bad bugs!

  “What is it?” Zander gasped. “What is that feeling?”

  “Electricity. They need. I need. They . . . drained me.”

  He was quiet, probably sorting through prospective funny farms, wondering which one took applicants for my kind of “funny.”

  But he asked again, “Gemma, are you going to be all right?”

  “Yes. After. While. Takes. A minute.”

  Give or take a couple of hours.

  “Will you still be, um, invisible?”

  I nodded then remembered he couldn’t see my nod. “Yes.”

  “Will you tell me?” He didn’t finish his sentence, but he didn’t need to.

  I listened. The mites said nothing.

  “Yes,” I whispered again. “I’ll tell you.”

  Chapter 24

  Eventually I grew strong enough to move to my spot on t
he sofa in the living room. Zander decided I wasn’t going to “disappear” and went into the kitchen to fix us something to eat.

  I lay unmoving on the sofa but I was listening—and not to the nanomites. It was pleasant, hearing Zander open cupboard doors and bang pots and pans.

  Nice. But don’t get used to it.

  After eating, I had enough strength to begin my tale, the same one I’ve recorded here for you, Dear Reader. The telling of the gist of it didn’t take long, but answering questions, filling in details, and repeating certain aspects took hours.

  Under Zander’s probing queries, I even talked about Genie. My small admission to Emilio had opened a crack in the dam I’d built around my childhood. Once I began unburdening myself to Zander, that dam gave way. I think I found it easier to talk about my sister and the childhood she had terrorized when I knew Zander couldn’t see my face or my tears.

  When I finished, I was even more exhausted, my voice scratchy and rough.

  “You’ve been carrying this secret for a long time, Gemma.” Zander’s eyes were sad. It hurt that my words had grieved him. I didn’t want that.

  “I’m sorry, but, well, I’ve never been able to tell anyone. Until now.”

  “Not anyone?”

  “I had no one.”

  He just nodded.

  “Zander.” I had to say it. I had to get it out of my mind and into the open. “Earlier when you said that we were maybe more than friends? You know we can’t be that, right? So there’s no point in talking like we could be.”

  He considered before answering. “Yes, I agree. There are reasons we can’t be together.”

  “Because of my ‘condition’ or because I can’t . . . won’t buy into your faith?”

  Again he thought before he spoke. “What if I said your spiritual ‘condition’ was as much an obstacle as your physical one?”

  He fumbled for my hand and I gave it to him. “I want to tell you something, Gemma, something I believe will make a difference for you.”

  He hesitated. I thought I knew what was coming. “I can’t, Zander. I can’t join your church.” It was a settled decision, one I’d made years before.

  “I’m not asking you to join my church. I want to tell you about Jesus.”