“I heard you moving around,” she continues. I notice that she’s holding something. Her hands work their way across it like she’s smoothing it out. She sees me looking and holds it up. In the lamp’s glow, I make out that it’s a feather of green and blue and is attached to a thin leather string.
“This was my mother’s,” she says. “I don’t remember much about her.” My mom has rarely spoken of her own mother, and it’s almost surprising remembering she had one. But of course she did. Her mother died when she was young. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t exist. Mom holds the feather up to her head and smiles. “I remember she used to wear this in her hair.”
The smile slips from my mom’s face. I sit down next to her on the bed. I’m about to tell her what I know, but she holds up a hand. At first, it’s like she’s stopping me from speaking, but then she moves to touch my hair. She pets the back of my head, and I can’t help but close my eyes. For the second time tonight, I feel like I might lose it.
“You have your father’s hair,” she says. Then she looks me dead in the face. “But you have my eyes.”
I don’t know exactly what she’s implying, but it’s not that we share the same eye color.
Mom moves the hair off my neck and onto my shoulder. Then she lifts the feather to the bottom of my scalp. Tingles shoot across my shoulders as she ties the leather twine attached to the feather into my hair. When she’s done, she lets my curls spill across my back.
“You look beautiful, Tella.”
I stand and look in the mirror. The vibrant green-and-blue feather lies over my right shoulder, mixed with a bit of my thick, curly hair. I look at my big brown eyes and wonder what she sees in them. Besides fear.
My mom stands suddenly and crosses the room. She wraps me in a hug and holds on to me for several moments before letting go. I think she’s going to confess something, but she only says, “Good night.”
I lie down on the bed, pretending I’m going back to sleep. At the door, she stops and glances back. Her eyes flick toward my open closet, where my backpack lies exposed. Her gaze returns to me and her face twists. “Your mama loves you.”
Then she’s gone.
I choke on her final words, willing myself to crawl back out of bed and grab my backpack once again. Stuffing the clothes down, I decide not to get any food from the kitchen. I need to leave now, and I can buy some in town. But I do grab the stash of money I have from months of unused allowance. I’m sure I must have almost two hundred dollars at this point. Because I have no idea of what I’ll need, I also throw in random things from my desk: pens, paper, scissors, tape. The last thing I pack is a photo of my family that’s stuck in the edge of my mirror. I can’t bear to go without taking a piece of them with me. That and my glittery purple nail polish.
When I leave, I go out the front door. There’s something definitive about it. Like if I use it, then I’m making some sort of statement. Even if I have no idea what it is.
We don’t have a garage, so my parents park in the driveway, on the opposite side of the house from my bedroom window. I round the corner and deliberate on which car to take. There’s the sleek black 4Runner with the navigator and off-terrain tires that I always pestered my parents about driving when I first got my license, and there’s Bob. Bob has been with us for a while, like, since I was born. And after almost two hundred thousand miles, the car is an utter embarrassment to the auto community.
I decide to take Bob. My parents will wake up to find their daughter gone. I’d hate to have them left with the crap car, too.
Grabbing the extra keys from the breaker box, I reason that if I gun it, I can make it to town in about twenty-five minutes. Not too bad. I hop inside the car, throw my bag in the passenger seat, and start the engine. As I’m rolling down the dirt driveway, I glance into the rearview mirror. The house is still cloaked in night, and all I can think is: My family lives there.
Driving away, I suddenly realize the house isn’t so bad. I spent more time with my family in the last nine months here than I did in ten years living in Boston. And as it turns out, my people are pretty awesome.
I pull into the parking lot of the only diner in the area that’s open twenty-four hours and glance at the dashboard clock: 3:37. I made it in twenty-three minutes. Not too shabby.
The door of the diner chimes when I walk through. Exactly two people turn in my direction: a trucker-looking dude with Popeye-sized forearms and his female friend, who finds her inebriation hysterical. They’re a flawless match in this decrepit town of Montana.
A waitress in bad khakis appears from the back and strolls toward me, holding a discarded tray in her right hand. Watching her walk, I decide I could teach her a thing or two about sashaying.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I pull myself up, trying to appear adultlike. “Do you guys have a computer I can use?”
The waitress cocks her head. “You buying something?”
“Um, yes?”
“You know how to tip?” she asks.
Oh, real classy. “Thirty percent. That’s the standard, right?”
She smiles and nods. “You can use the one in the office. Just make it quick.”
I go behind the counter and find the computer. After a little googling on their dial-up Internet connection, I find that the Old Red Museum is in a city called Lincoln. And, good Lord, it’s seventeen hours away. What if I miss the selection process for the Pandora — whatever that is?
I print off directions and buy several sandwiches and bottles of water on my way out. I leave more than the 30 percent I promised the waitress, hoping it’ll put a little sashay in her step.
Then I get on the road and drive like a demon toward Nebraska, wondering if I’m a naïve idiot for doing this.
Almost twenty hours later, I’m nearing the middle of the city. I’m exhausted after the drive, and by now the whole wide world feels surreal and disconnected. Everything is fast and slow at the same time. I follow the last of the directions until I see it — the Old Red Museum. The picture Google provided matches the enormous redbrick building, which looks more like a medieval castle than a museum. At almost midnight, the place looks particularly eerie.
I find a parking spot and walk up the short flight of stairs. Rubbing my arms to fight off a sudden chill, I stop in front of the enormous double doors.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
There’s no way this place is open this late. And by the time they do open, it’ll probably be too late. It’s probably too late as is. I hold my breath and tug on the door. It doesn’t budge. I pull again and again, and scream when it still doesn’t open.
I drove across the US of A, left my family without an explanation, and now I’m either too late or there was never anything here to begin with. Ef my life. Rearing back, I kick the door as hard as I can. Then I wrap both hands around the door handles and let out a noise like a wild banshee as I pull back.
The doors swing open.
I’m not sure whether to celebrate or freak out. I decide to do neither and slip inside. As I walk around the inside of the museum, listening to the sound of my footsteps echo off the walls, I imagine I am moments from death. It’s sad, I think, that this is all it takes to break my sanity.
Two curling flights of stairs bow out from the first-floor lobby, and red and white tiles cover the floors. There are gilded picture frames everywhere. So many that I think the placement of the frames — and not their contents — is the real art. Everything, absolutely everything, smells like wax. I mosey up to an abandoned reception desk and leaf through the glossy pamphlets littering the surface. I hold one of the pamphlets up to my nose. Yep, wax.
I glance around, having no idea what to look for. Will there be a sign like at school registration? Students with last names starting with A–K this way?
On my left, I notice a long hallway dotted with doors on either side. Nothing looks particularly unusual. But when I glance to my right, I spot something. Th
ere’s a door at the end of the corridor that has a sliver of light glowing beneath it. I’m sure it’s just an administration office, one where someone forgot to flip the switch. But I’ve got nothing better to go on, so I head toward it.
I pause outside the door, wondering if I’m about to get busted for B and E. Then I turn the handle and find myself at the top of another winding staircase.
You’ve got to be kidding me. What is this — Dracula’s bachelor pad?
I’ve watched a lot of scary movies, and I’ve learned nothing good is ever at the bottom of a winding staircase. Pulling in a breath and preparing myself to be eaten alive, I head down. My shoes are loud against the steps. So loud, I imagine they are intentionally trying to get me killed.
When I reach the final few stairs, I ready myself to look around the bend. My heart is racing, and I secretly pray the worst I encounter is an angry janitor with a wax addiction. I turn the bend — and my eyes nearly pop from my skull.
The enormous room is perfectly circular, dotted with candles to light the space. Surrounding the walls are rows and rows of dark, rich mahogany bookshelves. A large round table stands in the center of the red-and-white-tiled floor. The room is spectacular, but what it holds is so jarring, my ears ring.
Across every shelf, every spot on the table, every tile on the floor — are small sculptures of hands. And in a few of those hands — the ones still performing their duty — are eggs. There are only nine eggs left, it seems. For a moment, I imagine how amazing it would have been to see each hand holding an egg, but it’s enough just to see these nine.
The eggs seem to dance in the candle flame, and as I move closer, I realize why. The surfaces of the eggs are almost iridescent, their colors changing depending on how you look at them. They are different sizes, too; some as big as a basketball, others as small as a peach.
I don’t need the device in my pocket to tell me what my gut already knows.
This is the Pandora Selection Process.
If this race isn’t real, I think, I give the prankster mad props for enthusiasm.
The eggs look fragile, like if I touch them, they’ll shatter into a million pieces. I remember when I was small and we would go to my grandmother’s house — the grandmother I knew — there were always things I was allowed to touch and things I was not. These eggs would have definitely made the Do Not Touch List. I walk around the room slowly, bending down or reaching up on tiptoes to look closer at each one. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen before, and it feels almost like I’ve stepped onto the set of a sci-fi flick. I don’t understand how these things got here. Or how this is even happening.
Some eggs seem brighter than the rest, while others seem a bit sturdier. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to pick, what characteristics I should look for, or how I’m supposed to announce my decision.
As I’m about to touch an egg, a thought occurs to me. What if the first one I touch defines my choice? Yes, this whole thing may still turn out to be a hoax, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem that way, and I want to be careful in case it’s not. I yank my hand back and bite down on my fist. Decision making has never been my strong suit.
I lean in close to a rather large egg, my breath causing the colors to swirl and change. It’s so beautiful, and isn’t it always more fun to have the bigger present at Christmas? A decision must be made, and if I let myself contemplate what’s inside each egg any longer, I’ll never make one.
“Eeny, meeny, miny …” I point to the large egg in front of me. “Moe.”
My hands are almost on it when I hear a thundering on the stairs behind me. I spin around and listen. It sounds like hail during a bad storm. And it’s getting louder, and closer. Moments later, people of all ages spill into the room in a frenzy. They race toward the eggs, their eyes wide and their hands outstretched. Unlike me, they don’t hesitate. They snatch the first eggs they come to and race back up the stairs.
My face burns when I realize what’s happening. They’re taking all the eggs. There won’t be enough for everyone. I can’t wait any longer.
Someone has already grabbed the egg I’d intended to take, so I dash toward another one. A man in his midtwenties cuts me off and swipes the egg in one graceful movement. Then he tucks it under his arm like a football and makes for the stairs.
Three more people rush toward two eggs. They claw and kick and scream until two girls, no older than thirteen, slip away from a portly man and sprint toward the stairs. I see an egg toward the room’s entrance and hurry toward it, but I’m not aggressive enough, and when it comes down to me and another girl with wild eyes and big shoulders, I falter. She sneers at me and grabs the egg. Then she’s gone, flying up the stairs two at a time.
Everything has happened in a matter of seconds. As I look around the room, I realize with a bolt of fear that there’s only one egg left. I’m closest to it, and the girl closest to me realizes that. She narrows her eyes in my direction and darts toward the egg. But I’m faster. The people behind us don’t move, or at least I don’t hear them move. It’s like they know it’s too late. That it’s between me and this girl, and they might as well pack it in.
I’m so close to the egg that a smile curls my lips. I’m going to get there first. Then it’s just a matter of getting past her and back up the stairs. I reach out to grab the softball-sized egg, and then I feel it — a shooting pain ripping across my scalp.
The chick has ahold of my hair and she’s pulling me down, down. I crash to the floor and she leaps over my body. Instantly, I reach for her legs. If I have to fight her on the ground, I will, because suddenly I remember Cody the way he was before I left, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
The girl anticipates my grabbing for her, so she makes a hard left, races around the circular table, and it’s over. She’s gone. At some point during the mad dash, I realized with overwhelming certainty that this race is real. That the Brimstone Bleed is real. And now I try to swallow that I’ve already lost.
I beat my fist against the ground and look up. Three people remain in the room with me. They looked equally dazed, searching for an egg that isn’t there. One of them hangs his head and ascends the stairs slowly. Like me, he seems petrified to return home and admit failure.
The back of my head aches, and when I reach around and touch the throbbing spot, I feel something wet and sticky. Though I know I’ll be sick if I look, I almost want to. Like seeing my own injury will be partial punishment for failing my brother.
I look at my hand. Sure enough, my fingers are coated in blood. It’s bright red, which I think is good. Dark blood means it’s coming from somewhere deep. I glance up to — what? — show the two people left my wound?
But when I look up, there is only one person.
My heart stops.
The guy looking down at me is very tall, or maybe he just seems so because I’m still on the ground. He appears to be about my age, though the broad width of his shoulders tells me he may actually be a couple of years older. His eyes are blue. Not in the way that makes me buckle at the knees and start naming our children, but the kind of blue that makes my breath catch. A cold, hard blue that looks more like a statement than a color — one that says, “Back the fuck off.”
His hair is so dark, it looks like wet ink, and is spiked around his scalp in soft tufts. He has a strong jawline, and right now that jaw is clenched so tightly, I’m afraid this guy is about to kick me when I’m down.
“They’re all gone,” I whisper. I hadn’t thought to say anything, but it just slips out.
He narrows those chilling blue eyes at me, and in an instant, they flick toward the floor near one of the bookcases. He looks back at me, and I wonder if maybe, even though he looks a little like a serial killer, he’s going to help me up.
His gaze lands on my hair, on the feather woven into it. Then he turns and walks toward the stairs, carrying a colossal egg under his arm. I contemplate fighting him for it; it’s easily the biggest egg I’ve seen tonight. Then I realiz
e it’s pointless. I’m dizzy from hitting my head, and this guy looks like he works out for a living. But I think about the way his eyes flicked toward the bookcase. It makes me wonder …
Treading softly, I move toward where he had looked. But there’s nothing there. I grab on to the top of the bookcase, as far as I can reach anyway, and step up. Then I climb the shelves like they’re a ladder until I can see over the top. There’s nothing there and — when I look around the room from this elevated height — I don’t see anything anywhere else, either.
I crawl down the shelves until I’m standing on the floor again. Then I get onto my hands and knees. When I lay my face against the cool tile and peer under the bookcase, I have to bite my lip to keep from whooping.
I see an egg.
Pressing myself flatter against the floor, I stretch my arm out. I hold my breath as I retrieve it, afraid if I fill my lungs, I’ll drop my prize. Once the egg is safely out, I study it closely. It’s the size of a watermelon, which I guess is okay, but the coloring is all wrong. It’s not like the others, with the remarkable sheen that changes when you turn them over in your hands. This one is dull, and when I hold it up, I see there’s a fracture the length of my finger running across the bottom.
It must have dropped onto the floor and rolled beneath the bookcase. Looking at it, I wonder if whatever’s inside is still alive. My guess is no, but I have no other choice than to hope it is. I stand up, pull out my shirt, and lay the egg in like my shirt’s a nest.
Then I smile. This egg is ugly, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s got a little stank rolling off it. But it’s mine. And I’m going to take care of what’s inside.
I wrap both arms around the bottom of my egg and hurry up the stairs, out the front doors, and into Bob. Slamming the car door, I glance around. I’ve got to find a safe place for this thing. I grab my bag from the back and pull out anything sharp. When all that’s left is soft clothing, I nestle my egg inside, take one last look at it, then zip the bag back up.
Fire & Flood Page 3
