Amber Frost

by Suzi Davis

  “Your luck’s about to change,” an amused, lilting voice said from behind me.

  I turned, though in truth I didn’t need to look. Even though I’d only met him this morning, his voice was unique enough that I’d recognize it anywhere. I stared at Sebastian blankly, attempting to hide my swirling emotions below the surface of my skin. Curiously, I wasn’t embarrassed for him to see me like this – shaking hands, pale, clammy skin, crouched down unceremoniously on the cafeteria floor.

  “When coins land like that, it means your luck’s about to change,” he explained, studying my face curiously as he spoke.

  “Oh,” I replied simply. I still felt shaken. I stood up, smoothing my skirt and my hair automatically, composing myself. I knew it was a mistake to be seen in public speaking with Sebastian. I should get back to my table, to my group. “Excuse me,” I said, politely as I carefully stepped around him. My arm brushed his as I passed him though, the light touch sending an unexpected jolt through me, a faint familiar echo of an emotion that I couldn’t quite place. I paused, struggling to understand the sudden intense sensations that flared within me. For a split second, with terrifying clarity, all I wanted was to crow with joyous laughter and howl in torturous pain; my whole body trembled with the force of the conflicting desires. And then just as suddenly, the urge disappeared. I was left confused, fighting against the steadily building fear as I wondered what was happening. Sebastian watched me all the while, his dark eyes lit with an undefinable emotion akin to my own. He appeared to be just as confused and disoriented. He recovered first though, taking a quick step back from me with wary eyes.

  “You forgot your change,” he said softly. He bent down to smoothly scoop up the coins into one hand. He held them out to me in the hand that his tattoo started on, revealing that the intricate black pattern twisted from the center of his palm around the base of his thumb and then wrapped around his wrist. I imagined it must have been very painful to get. For a split second I could almost feel the blistering, nauseating pain flaring from my own hand, up my arm and down my whole side. I automatically flinched away from him and the imagined pain, afraid once more by the confusing emotions and sensations he was stirring within me.

  “Keep it. I don’t want change,” I told him, struggling to keep my voice even as I forced myself to turn away.

  “For some, needs and wants don’t always surmount to the same thing,” he quickly replied, laughing softly as he spoke. I kept walking away, refusing to acknowledge him again. For some reason I felt like I was running the wrong way. “And sometimes, we lie to ourselves,” I heard him quietly add in his low, lilting voice.

  I hurried back to my table, refusing to look anywhere but at Clarke once I sat down, afraid I might meet Sebastian’s eye across the room. The encounter had left me unnerved and more than a little afraid. It wasn’t just the inexplicable and bizarre reaction I’d had to his touch that had unsettled me. There was also something about the way he looked at me that made me feel uncomfortable. Like he knew all my secrets; like he recognized something in me that I’d yet to find in myself, something I refused to see.

  I firmly and determinedly pushed the strange thoughts aside, refocusing my attention on what I knew should be much more important matters. There was my boyfriend that I needed to keep happy, friends that needed to be impressed and appearances that needed to be kept up. I was being silly, ridiculous even, entertaining random thoughts and strange notions. I refocused my attention where it should be, purposely not allowing myself to think about Sebastian, his tattoo, or the whole bizarre encounter for the rest of the day.

  Because Clarke had rugby practice after school, he wasn’t able to drive me home that day. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed taking the school’s bus; a fancy coach with dark tinted windows and comfy leather bench seats. The bus slowly wound through Victoria, dropping off students on the way along the neat and narrow streets. I gazed out the window, trying not to let my mind wander in the wrong direction as I watched the cold, autumn wind strip the many-colored leaves from the hundred-year old trees that lined the streets. The tree branches bent under the force of the wind as their leaves were ripped away in a swirl of colors. Change was everywhere; it was a part of nature, part of life. It was inescapable and we had no choice but to submit. Choice and change; these two concepts seemed incompatible in my life, I mused.

  Quite a few students were still on the bus as we neared the waterfront. Many students at Craigflower lived along Beach Drive and in the surrounding neighborhood. I sat alone in silence as I gazed out towards the ocean longingly, envying the freedom of the seagulls that soared and circled in the icy wind, white spots against the darkening sky. The bus turned onto Beach Drive, angling inland and away from the ocean. The huge homes we drove past seemed to tower in oppressively all around me. Even the old oak trees felt too close as they formed their skeletal canopies against the sky. After nearly three months of living here, it had yet to feel like home.

  The bus came to a smooth stop at the gates to my massive house. I stood up reluctantly, lifting my designer shoulder bag as I made my way down the aisle between the seats. No one said goodbye or waved to me as I got off the bus, but I didn’t expect them to. None of my popular friends took the bus, so there was no one who I could speak to and no one who would dare approach me. As part of the popular group, I was ironically isolated and alone.

  I hopped off the bus and made my way towards the gates at the end of my driveway. They began smoothly sliding apart as I approached – someone was watching. I heard the even purr of the bus’s engine as it pulled away behind me. Only the sound of the swirling wind rattling the tree branches and sweeping away the last of autumn’s leaves could be heard as I walked down the smoothly paved driveway to my house.

  My house was massive, white and pristine; it reminded me of an old American, colonial mansion. I tried not to look at it too closely though as I walked around to the side where the casual entrance was. Just looking at this beautiful, impressive house made me feel empty inside.

  The house itself was never empty; there were always at least two staff members working at any given time. We had a cook named Eliza, two different maids, and a butler, Walter, who really just managed the staff and household in my parents’ absence. My parents were almost always absent. Perhaps that was why this house felt so unwelcoming, so sad to me. Ever since my father had been named a partner and we’d moved to Beach Drive, I was almost always alone. Though my mother was supposedly a “stay-at-home mom”, there was little about her that was maternal and she was rarely actually at home during the day. My parents both worked long hours (my father at his office, my mother as head of both the volunteer and fundraising committees at the local hospital) and even on weekends or in the evenings they were typically busy with various events, functions and important social gatherings. I didn’t begrudge them it. They worked hard so that we could live this kind of life, so that we were so much better off than others. I should be happy, I should be proud.

  I went through the side entrance to our home and into the small, yet fancy, mud room with its shiny, tiled floor. This room was mostly bare except for a long mirror, small side table and a large closet for shoes and coats. It was much less intimidating than the grand, front entranceway with its marble floor, gilded mirror, vaulted ceiling and chandelier. Another advantage of using this entrance was I could usually sneak past Walter. Not only was I still not entirely comfortable with our new staff members, there was also just something that didn’t sit right with me about Walter. I could think of no better way to express it than that he gave out a ‘bad vibe’.

  Today I was in luck. I made it down the hall, past the kitchen, through the dining room and up the staircase to the third floor without running into him. Eliza saw me creep past the kitchen and gave me a friendly smile to which I returned a polite nod. Though I appreciated the gesture, I knew it wasn’t proper to become too friendly with the staff.

  When I finally reached the sanctity of my room and was able to c
lose the door behind me, I felt a faint sense of relief. Though my house may not feel like home yet, my room certainly felt like it was mine and was a safe haven of sorts, in this strange new house.

  My bedroom was much larger than the one in our old house but the furniture and arrangement of it was mostly the same as before. My queen-sized, canopy bed was pushed up against the west wall, a small night stand with a lamp and alarm clock beside it. The door to my large, ensuite bathroom with a spa-sized tub was also through the west wall. My bookcase, computer and writing desk were against the north wall, beside the door. All that was missing was my large, dark cherry-wood dresser and vanity mirror; these could be found if you walked through the huge walk-through closet on the east wall of my bedroom into the dressing room beyond. My favorite feature of my new room was to the south though, where I had a huge bay window, complete with a window seat. I spent most of my time sitting there, listening to music, reading or typing on my laptop as I gazed out over the rooftops and trees. On clear days I could sometimes make out the snow-capped peaks of the Olympic Mountains just visible on the horizon.

  I tossed my backpack down by my writing desk. I decided to save my homework for later as something to fill the tedious time between dinner and bed. I quickly changed out of my school uniform and into a slightly more comfortable pair of tight designer jeans and gray stretchy, knit sweater. I then took my sketch book and pencil set out of my bag and scooped my iPod up off my desk as I crossed my room to sit at my window seat, making a comfortable spot for myself amongst the pillows. A light drizzle had started to fall and raindrops were slowly sliding down the window’s glass. The sky was a dark gray and the wind seemed to be picking up. It felt ominous, matching my mood.

  I sketched away the rest of the afternoon, pop-rock tunes blaring in my ears. I stuck with drawing safe images – mostly fashion designs, flowers and cartoon characters, and I tried to keep my thoughts along the same benign path. It was strange though. Lately, whenever I let my concentration lapse, I would quickly find myself entangled in dark and confusing thoughts. I was sure part of it had to do with my dreams; it felt like every dream I’d had for the past few weeks seemed to revolve around the concept of death or more specifically, my death. Each night I woke up in a cold sweat. But it was not the idea of dying that scared me. My faith was strong and in my heart I knew that death was not an end but a new beginning. It was the last moment in my dreams, the moment right before I died, that haunted me throughout the day. Just as I was dying, and slipping away from this world and into the next, I would suddenly, with terrifying clarity, realize I had failed. I had lived my whole life without finding… without accomplishing… something. My last breath would rush from my lips with a defeated sigh as the darkness came rushing in…

  I gave my head a little shake, pushing the eerie memories of my dreams away. I looked down at my sketchbook and noticed that at some point, my drawings had started to take on a darker quality, an intricate, twisting pattern slowly beginning to emerge. I quickly scrunched up the paper and tossed it across the room. I started a new sketch on a clean, white page, firmly pushing the dark design and its accompanying thoughts away. There was a small, nagging voice in the back of my mind that I couldn’t silence, that kept asking, What’s wrong with you?

  At six o’clock, I made my way down to the dining room for dinner. My parents were already there when I entered, sitting at opposite ends of the long, formally set table. I wasn’t surprised that no one had told me they were home – they probably hadn’t been for long. It was also not surprising that my father was talking on his cell phone and my mother reading a newspaper, completely ignoring one another. I would have been shocked to see them speaking amicably in the privacy of our home where there was no one to impress; the charade of their marriage was transparent here. My mother turned to me when I entered. I arranged a smile on my face.

  “Grace, come sit down,” my mother greeted me as she noticed me hovering in the doorway. She folded her paper and put it aside, automatically running a hand through her short, immaculately-styled blonde hair. “You’re looking a bit pale dear, you’re not sick are you?”

  “No, Mom. I’m fine,” I assured her as I took my place at the middle of the table.

  “Hmm.” She looked me over critically, her thin features pinching into a frown. “It’s past time for you to visit the tanning salon then. I’ll book you in for this weekend. We’re having dinner with the Simons on Sunday and we can’t have you looking this pale and drawn in front of Clarke’s parents, they’ll think we breed weak stock,” she half-joked. My mother’s skin was pulled tightly over her cheekbones, due to her most recent face-lift. It did hold a healthy, warm glow though, a look that she expected me to emulate.

  “Okay, thanks Mom.” I struggled to sound grateful.

  Just then my father finished his phone conversation. He turned to offer me a brief but genuine smile.

  “Hello, darling. How was your day?” he asked in his deep, gruff voice.

  Strange, confusing, tedious, I answered in my head.

  “I had a great day, thank you,” I answered, smiling sweetly. He nodded, his attention already elsewhere as he picked up his phone again.

  My parents were becoming strangers to me. The only thing I felt when I looked at them nowadays was a small twinge of guilt over the lack of affection I had for either. I glanced over at my mother, her tall, slim frame so similar to my own. That was where the similarities between us ended though; my mothers lips were thin, her hazel eyes small, almost beady, her nose slightly snubbed. Sometimes it seemed like she was jealous of my looks; most of the time she was proud, wanting to show me off, encouraging me to primp and prep myself and wear clothes that showed off my body to its best advantage. My mother had never been very maternal; she’d always seemed to view me as more of a possession, like a doll, rather than a daughter.

  My mother was an only child and had been spoilt her whole life, not unlike myself I supposed. She’d come from money, her own father teaching her valuable investment skills that had helped get us to where we were today. She’d always had high expectations not only for me and my father but also for herself. It had once seemed like she truly believed she was helping us by pushing so hard but since my grandfather’s death two years ago when she’d inherited her family fortune, she’d become colder, harsher and even more driven. I had started to wonder if she’d ever be satisfied.

  My father and I had once been close. I had been his precious little girl who could do no wrong. He had spoiled me rotten and I’d had him wrapped around my little finger. As the years went by though, he’d become less interested in me and more involved in his work, his aspirations reaching higher and higher. His thick, dark hair had grayed, his handsome, chiseled features had hardened, the lines in his face running deep. His strong, muscular build had softened, a round belly protruding now from his middle. It made me feel a little sad that I didn’t know him anymore. He was not the same man who used to pick me up to spin me in his arms, to toss me in the air and laugh in pleasure at my own delight. Now I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my father laugh.

  Yet no matter how distant my parents had become, I still wanted nothing more than to please them, to make them proud of me, to earn a little of their love and perhaps a little more of their time. But how could I possibly make demands on them when they had given me so much? I went to the best school, lived in one of the largest houses in Victoria, I had expensive clothes, and all the best things that money could buy. How could I be so selfish to want more?

  My thoughts were interrupted as Walter came through the small door at the back of the dining room from the kitchen. He pushed our meals on a small cart, silently serving first my father, then my mother and last of all me. As always, his dark and serious features were twisted and pinched as if he smelt something bad. I wondered if I was just imagining him glaring down his crooked nose at me, his eyes narrowed and suspicious as he placed my plate before me. I didn’t have time to contemplate this, as
I was distracted by what was on my plate or rather, what wasn’t.

  “Walter, what’s the meaning of this?” I asked, somewhat sharply as I gestured to the meager meal before me. Barely a quarter of the plate was covered with only a few string beans, some steamed broccoli and a tiny piece of unadorned chicken breast. Walter hesitated, his sneer disappearing as he glanced to my mother.

  “I asked Eliza to prepare a lower calorie meal for you, darling,” my mother explained as she spread her white napkin across her lap with a quick flourish of her wrists. “You’ve been eating too many carbs lately. You know how quickly you gain weight.”

  Luckily my mother wasn’t watching me as my expression slipped for a brief second. Her comment stung; I watched what I ate very carefully. I also took vigorous tennis lessons, went for long jogs, and still worked out in our home gym almost every day – a fact that she knew well. She’s just trying to look out for me, I thought. In her own way, she was being supportive. I was lucky to have a mother who cared as much as she, I reminded myself but I still struggled to smother the hurt and slightly bitter emotions that were twisting in my gut. My thoughts did little to comfort me though as I was suddenly aware of the puzzling realization that I didn’t believe a word of what I was thinking. Why was I lying to myself?

  “That was very thoughtful of you, thank you,” I replied as graciously as I could manage. My mother gave me another quick, tight smile, her eyes barely flickering my way. My father didn’t even notice the exchange, he was busy eating his steak and potatoes, probably trying to get dinner over with as quickly as possible so that he could return to his real passion, his work. It wasn’t a bad idea. I knew my mother wouldn’t approve of me scarfing down my food though, so I forced myself to take slow, small bites, chewing every mouthful carefully.