by Gwenda Bond
Miranda laid back instead of answering, grass brushing her ears, and watched the clouds. "I don't know what's going to happen to me. I never really thought beyond taking care of him. Never made any plans." She thought. "Never figured there was any point making them."
Phillips took a moment to respond. "That part is a good thing though. Right?"
Miranda didn't answer. Was it?
Phillips hauled himself up on his knees and reached over her. He touched the headstone. "Nice to meet you, AnnaMarie," he said.
Miranda smiled up at him, without meaning to. This was a boy who lent himself to wondering about. Especially when he jolted up, a sudden uneasiness overtaking his whole body – she wondered why.
He gave her a stricken look. "I don't think you should go home…" he hesitated. "You shouldn't be alone. Come to my house? You can meet my mom."
She agreed, despite the fact he was wrong. She was alone. But she'd be that way for the rest of her life. There was no reason to rush home and embrace it.
Phillips heard the words the moment after he touched her mother's headstone, the moment he looked down and found her smiling at him with the first genuine approval he'd seen cross her face. One voice, low and right in his ear, glass clear: Curse-bearer. Curse-bearer, she is a curse-born child.
He couldn't figure out how to tell her.
So, he didn't. Not yet, at least. He angled the car up the driveway toward the white two-story house that had originally belonged to his "gifted" grandmother. It was the kind of house that should feel comfortable to anybody – the sort of place pictured in Webster's next to the word home. Maybe that was why he felt nothing when he saw it. The normal white and normal wood and normal shape were too normal to be connected to him.
"Like something straight out of house and beach garden, huh? My mom should be cool, but if she's not, I'll just drop my stuff, and then we'll get you home," Phillips said, aware he was rambling. Now that he was about to see his mom again, he worried he'd underestimated how ticked she'd be about the whole 'stealing her car and leaving her at the airport' thing. "OK?"
Miranda straightened. "Oh, frak, it's after nine. I missed curtain."
He turned off the car. Where did the fake-curse frak come from? He couldn't remember. He'd have to look it up later. "They'll cancel, won't they?"
Her shoulders slumped. "Right. They already did. I forgot. Everyone's left town. No show to go on. But Sidekick will need food at some point soon."
Her disappointment about the cancellation was clear and he wished he'd kept his mouth shut. He had never seen The Lost Colony and vaguely wondered what it was like: he pictured cartoon savages wampuming around a set, overdone Elizabethan stuff. He managed to keep these ideas quiet as they left the car, since the show was clearly important to her.
There was one interesting thing about the house besides its history. His mother. She swung back in the porch swing and then rose from her perch in a smooth motion. She waited at the top of the steps, arms crossed, as they dragged lead feet across the lawn.
"Phillips Rawling," she said. "I should kill you right now."
He ducked his head. "You probably should. This is Miranda."
Miranda directed a shy wave at his mom.
Whose arms did not uncross in welcome. "And she is?"
"Miranda Blackwood. You remember her."
"Of course," his mother said, nodding after she got a better look at Miranda. She stuck out her hand, but Miranda didn't take it. Unbothered, she took Miranda's arm and squeezed. "I'm Sara Rawling."
"I know. Small town," Miranda said.
"Please come in and pretend not to listen while I yell at my son."
Miranda blinked. She probably hadn't expected his mother to be funny.
"Sounds like fun," Miranda said.
"It will be," his mom said. She steered Miranda across the porch toward the door, leaving him behind.
"Don't worry, I'm here for my entertainment value," Phillips said.
His mom hung back to hold the door for him after Miranda went inside. She caught Phillips' arm, and said, "Why is she with you?"
He wished he knew. "Be nice to her. Please? I'm… helping her with something."
"I'll need more than that later. But for now, OK." His mother squeezed his arm, with affection rather than any intent to harm. "It's good to see you. How are you doing?"
"Quiet," he lied. Sure, there had only been the one voice so far, but where there was one whisper, more would follow. So much for brain disorders. He didn't understand what cursebearer meant yet. He didn't want to.
But he'd have to puzzle it out anyway, and talking to his mom about how quiet it was wouldn't help there. "I bet Miranda's starving," he said. "I am."
One, two… His mother processed his meaning in less than the five seconds he'd guessed it would take. "Oh!" she said. "I'm the world's worst hostess." She dragged Phillips through the door with her. "Let me fix you guys something. Go clean up, wayward son. Leave us girls to it."
His mother's voice was far easier to read than most of the ones he heard in his head. He had no choice but to leave them "to it." He couldn't believe that with everything going on – a hundred and change missing people, most of the voices missing too, and Miranda's murdered father – he was nervous that "it" would involve baby pictures, embarrassing anecdotes, and cutesy nicknames being spilled. Moms were psychic and evil.
But relief beat his nerves about that into submission. He had a few more minutes to figure out how to tell Miranda about the curse-bearer thing. The thing he didn't understand yet.
An explosion of laughter shattered the silence behind him.
"That should drive him nuts," Sara said, grinning as she pulled a loaf of bread down from a shelf. "Turkey OK?"
Miranda nodded. "Perfect," she said.
The Rawling family kitchen wasn't small, but it was cozy. Evening light streamed in through a windowed back door and a picture window over the sink, further warming the honeyed tones everything was designed in.
Sara started removing items from the fridge. She asked, "How do you guys know each other?"
That didn't take long.
"We don't really. Phillips just–" happened to come by so I shot him with an ancient gun "–gave me a ride to the courthouse."
Sara laid several slices of bread across the sparkling clean counter. "I take it he didn't tell you that he took the car without permission and left me abandoned at the Norfolk airport?"
Miranda shook her head, slowly.
"He has a way of leaving out these things. You said the courthouse. Did you guys go by the office?"
"You mean, did Phillips see his dad?"
Sara nodded, waiting for the answer.
"What's the deal with them?" Miranda asked.
"You saw them in action?" Sara slathered some Dijon mustard across a slice of bread. "They think they're polar opposites. Really, though, they're not so different. Neither of them likes doing what they're told."
Miranda accepted the sandwich from Sara. She took a bite, talked while chewing. Delicate graces weren't her forte. "Who does?" she countered.
Sara considered her and Miranda squirmed, feeling sized up.
"Is your dad one of the missing?" Sara asked the question quietly.
"No," Miranda said.
Sara had obviously been expecting a different answer. "Then why'd you go by there?"
The turkey sandwich congealed in Miranda's stomach. She'd have to say the words at some point. The first time might as well be to someone being nice to her.
"He's dead," she said. "My dad's dead. That's why we went to the courthouse. The chief wanted to tell me in person."
Sara was instantly at her side, rubbing a hand across her back. Miranda felt a stab of loss, sharp and mean in her chest. She put down the sandwich.
"Oh, honey," Sara said, her hand tracing a circle across Miranda's shoulders.
"I'm eighteen in a few months," Miranda said. She needed to lighten the moment, keep the tears away. H
er dad had felt too much, and look what happened to him. She needed to stay strong. "The orphan card will get me a lot of sympathy at school. Hello, homework extensions."
Sara smoothed Miranda's hair back, and Miranda knew she wasn't fooled. Sara said, "You deserve better than sympathy."
Miranda didn't have anything to say to that. She picked up the sandwich.
Sara considered her for a long moment, traced another circle on her back. But then she left Miranda's side to finish making Phillips' turkey on wheat, apparently getting that Miranda wasn't comfortable talking about any of this yet.
"Phillips is special," Sara said, not looking up. "His dad knows that, but he doesn't understand it. Even though he grew up with a mother who was also… special. It's why he lived away all those years. We met out in New Mexico. I dragged him back here because he missed it too much, even if he wouldn't admit it. He doesn't know what to make of things that aren't easily explained. That you just have to take them for what they are, sometimes. He doesn't understand what it's like for Phillips. He loves him, but he doesn't understand."
Miranda chewed the chalky bread, taking in what she'd said. "He worries about him, right? That counts for something," she said.
Sara watched her. "It's hard not to worry about Phillips."
"Special how?" Miranda asked.
Phillips' footsteps clopped on the stairs, coming down fast. Sara raised her voice, "Just let me get those pictures. He's dressed like a little cowboy. So cute."
Miranda laughed, despite the tightness in her chest, waiting for Phillips' mock protest. But her laugh faded as she realised why this felt so strange.
This must be what normal families were like.
7
Marked
Phillips slid into the sedan's passenger seat, his mom taking over the driving duties. He was happy to have a few more minutes away from Miranda – not that he wanted to leave her, but it was hard to think with her around. Deciding what to do next was proving difficult enough.
Convincing Miranda to spend the night at his house hadn't been easy, but his mom wasn't taking no for an answer. First Phillips had proposed that he run over to get Sidekick and pack her a few things. Miranda's eyes had gone wide in horror at the prospect of him rummaging through her stuff, and she said she'd just go on her own. His mom stepped in and suggested it'd be better if Miranda stayed put, instead of pushing herself to go home so soon. She settled Miranda into the guest room with an old robe and a bunch of bath products. Then she seized the opportunity to take Phillips along with her on the errand.
At least Miranda's house wasn't that far a drive. Still, Phillips was shocked that his mom was able to contain her curiosity until they reached the end of their cul-de-sac. Her first question came along with the turn onto the highway, one of the main drags that more or less ran the length of the island.
"So, now you're going to tell me what's going on?" She rummaged a pack of cigarettes from her purse and tapped it on the top of the steering wheel. She glanced over and caught Phillips' frown.
"You kept smoking?"
"No," she said, sighing, "this would be my first one since we dropped you off in Jackson." With that, she rolled down the window and chucked the white and red package out.
It wasn't an environmentally sound disposal method, but it was better than her smoking. Besides, no one would ticket the police chief's wife for littering. "I hope a wild animal doesn't eat those," he said.
"It won't – they're disgusting." She reached over to brush his shoulder. "It's good to have you home, no matter what the circumstances."
The circumstances. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't get the missing people and Miranda's dad's murder to fit together.
"Phillips," his mom prompted, "it's not optional. You have to tell me what's going on. Why the sudden interest in Miranda Blackwood?"
"You have a problem with her? You seemed to like her."
"She's delightful, but that doesn't explain why you felt the need to steal my car to go see her. Or why you brought her home with you." She kept going before he could cut in. "Bringing her was absolutely the right thing. But I want to know what the deal is. It's really quiet in there?"
She meant in his head.
"I wouldn't go that far. But no voices, if that's what you mean…"
"Phillips."
"OK, one voice. I heard one voice – we stopped at the cemetery and we were at Miranda's mom's headstone and…"
"And?"
"And there was this one voice and it said she was the cursebearer or something."
The one eye he could see of hers widened. "You didn't tell her?"
"Not yet."
"Good. That's the last thing that poor girl needs right now." She drummed her fingers on the wheel. "Where do you think the missing people are? You think it has something to do with the Blackwoods, don't you?"
He shook his head. "No, not exactly. That's what I need to explain to her. I feel – I can't explain it. She's in danger. Her dad's murder seals it." And that weird gun. He'd bring that home too.
"He was murdered? Here?"
"I know." Tourist drownings and drunken accidents, sure. Murder? Not unheard of, but rare, and almost always due to family crap gone wrong.
"But where are all the people? Our neighbors are missing. Half my rook club is missing."
The question sent a chill deep into his bones. Out the car window a few lights were visible through the trees along the roadside. He'd forgotten how dark the interior got at night, away from the town's bright center. The branches were like fingers, reaching into the sky.
"They're gone, just like the voices," he said.
She slowed at the stop sign, signaling to turn onto Miranda's street. "They had to go somewhere. People don't vanish, not all at one time. Not unless they're cult members – and my rook club is not full of cult members. People don't vanish," she said, again. "They turn up dead or move elsewhere and start over. None of us believe the original colonists went away forever in a blink. And this isn't hundreds of years ago. People have cell phones with GPS – nice work turning yours off, by the way. I should lock you in a–"
Philips interrupted before she could go further down that path. "What if they did?"
"Did what?"
"Went away forever in a blink." And what if the spirits had gone too?
His mother's expression told him she longed for the cigarettes that had flown out the window. He didn't blame her.
No matter how welcome Sara and Phillips had attempted to make Miranda, she became uncomfortable the second they left.
It wasn't the Rawlings' house. Like the kitchen, the rest of it had proved cozy, full of worn-in things and warm-glow lamps. Miranda stood in the decent-sized guest room Sara had shown her to, taking in walls covered by shelves full of books with cracked spines, and colorful pieces of art that hadn't come with the frames. She tried hard not to think, and harder still not to feel, but being alone was wearing down her defenses.
If she stayed in here – thinking, feeling – then she'd break. She needed to do something.
An idea hit her. Well, not so much an idea as a fact: Phillips' room was somewhere on this floor, and there was no one else in the house but her.
Miranda had always believed she and Sydney Bristow would hit it right off. Spying, it was.
So what if Phillips hadn't lived here for years? He was a mystery to her. At the courthouse when he'd told her she could trust him, she'd believed him without understanding why. She'd stepped between him and his dad because of it. Had she been right to believe?
Miranda padded out into the hall. The first room she went into housed a nice sewing machine, scraps of fabric surrounding the workstation. A patchwork quilt that appeared to be made entirely of old Bruce Springsteen T-shirts lay folded on the floor.
Sara must be a crafty type. Like Miranda's mom had been. Part of her wanted to pretend it was her mom who worked at this sewing machine, wanted to pretend that this was the life her dad and her mom and
she had together.
But it wasn't. None of this coziness belonged to her. She nearly stopped exploring, then.
Instead she left the sewing room and hurried down the hall. The door at the end of it called out to her, mainly because of the Jolly Roger emblazoned across the center. The skull-and-crossbones sported a tacked on set of Groucho Marx glasses. Taking a breath, listening for any noises, reassuring herself they couldn't come back this soon, she turned the knob and entered.
