I've never been allowed to drive her car before. It's nothing spectacular, a black Jetta with a sunroof, but still. It's much snazzier than the Civic. It's also quieter.
“Thanks.” I don't really know what else to say.
“It's about time you started driving it. You can have it. If you want.” Comments like that make me swallow hard and make my stomach clench. I bite back the bile that threatens to come out on the leather seats as I pull out of the driveway. She turns on the radio, probably sensing my feelings.
An hour and a half later, we're both covered in flour and have banana is everywhere. I pull a slimy bit from my shirt and fling it into the trash.
“You want it to be a little lumpy. It bakes up better that way.” I stop stirring and she holds the pan for me to pour the batter in. We've been working from my grandmother's recipe, which is written in fading purple ink on a recipe card that's so stained you can barely read parts of it. Thankfully, she's got it memorized. Someday I will, too. I hate to think of that someday.
I haven't baked with her since I was little and begged her to let me lick the beaters from the big stand mixer. Before she'd been diagnosed, I'd come home and see her baking for her class, and I'd think about asking to lick the beaters again, but then Tex would call and ask me to go out, or I'd have ballet or homework. Now these moments are numbered. Like grains of sand, they ran through my fingers. I had to do what I could to capture them. I run upstairs to grab the camera she'd gotten me for my fifteenth birthday.
“Smile,” I say, surprising her. She poses while she wipes her finger around the inside of the bowl and licks it with relish. Then she throws some flour at my face and that's the end of the picture taking for a little while. It's time for epic flour fight.
Dad comes home to find us both panting on the floor, backs against the cabinets, flour still floating in the air like smoke. We both cough.
“It looks like a flour bomb exploded in here.” He's got Chinese take-out and tired expression on his face.
“It pretty much did.” We both look like ghosts or clowns or something. She bumps me with her shoulder and we giggle helplessly. There's something satisfying about making a huge mess without worrying about cleaning it up.
I choke on a flour cloud. It just makes me laugh harder.
Chapter Eleven
Knowing
The bread comes out great, even though we make enough to feed a small country.
“You have to make it until you can do it without the recipe,” she says. So we do, sending Dad out on another banana run. He's taking the next couple of days off to prepare for the camping trip, and she wants to visit the Sussex Elementary school where she worked. That disposes of much of the bread. I bring some to school and get a kick out of Tex and Jamie's faces as they bite into a slice.
“This is heaven. Are you sure you didn't put crack in here?” She doesn't even bother to swallow before she talks. Attractive.
“Only the best Colombian. How did you know?” She rolls her eyes at me and takes another bite. Jamie is kinda quiet, but he is eating it, so I know it isn't the bread. I'd tried calling him last night, but he never picked up and I didn't know what to say on the message so I gave up.
“How are you James?” He shrugs. Uh oh. Bad sign. Tex is too busy mowing down on the bread to notice the look I give him. He shakes his head. Hasn't told Tex. I give him another look. He shrugs again. I kick his foot under the lunch table.
He just glares at me. Fantastic.
I don't get a chance to talk to him until just after school when I snag him on the way to track practice. He tries to get away, but I hold on tight. He's not enough of an ass to drag me, thankfully.
“You didn't tell Tex about Cassie? What is wrong with you?” He tries to pull away, but I'm not letting go. I do stumble a bit, but I'm like a pit bull. Not letting go.
“I don't know. I just... I didn't want to tell anyone.” Ear tug with sigh included. I let go.
“You told me. I'm someone,” I point out.
“You're different.” He won't look at me.
“Why?”
“Because you know,” he says, like it's obvious. Not to me.
“Know what?”
“What it's like to have a parent that...” He shifts his bag to the other shoulder, glancing at the gym. A parent that what? Isn't going to be around? His dad's and alcoholic. My mother is a cancer patient. Those are two different things.
“I'm not getting it.” I wave my hands for him to elaborate. He just keeps looking at the gym, as if it's the last lifeboat and he's standing on the Titanic.
“I can't talk to you now, but we can talk later. I have to go.” I try once more to get him to turn around, but I see his face. He can't do this right now. I do know what that's like.
“Okay, fine.” I let go of his arm and watch him jog so he isn't late. It's almost a relief to think about something else. Other than how my mother is going to slip through my fingers and there's nothing I can do to hold onto her. And how I still want to see this guy I meet in a cemetery who threatens to kill me, and almost did. Thinking about anything else is a relief.
***
There are piles of bags on the kitchen counter when I get home. Work was harder than usual, with Tex pestering me about Jamie and Toby shushing us every five seconds and giving us useless chores like dusting the shelves or alphabetizing the frequent-buyer membership cards. I'd barely made it out of there without having a major blow-up.
“What's this?” I motion to the bags.
“I got you new jeans and a bunch of fabric so you can learn how to sew. It's about time you learned.” I try to look excited. I should be happy that she's doing these things with me. But really, I'm just tired. One look at her eager face and I shove the tiredness aside.
“Awesome,” I say with a smile that takes a bit of effort.
She tries to teach me the rudiments of the finicky machine she'd inherited and painstakingly restored. “Nothing is better than an old Singer. Nothing,” she says. She makes the machine hum and purr like a contented tiger. Her straight lines are perfect. Every time I try to make a straight stitch, the machine makes a horrible grinding noise.
“Whoa, stop, stop, stop.” She reaches in to adjust something, explaining what the issue was. I'm trying to commit it to memory, and thanking my stars that there is such a thing as Google. I yawn, but keep trying.
I nearly sew my fingers together three times, but I manage to sew two of the pieces of cloth together in a straight line, with no wrinkles. It's a miracle.
“Good job. See? It isn't as bad as you think it's going to be. I got you some patterns too.” Strewn across her bed are piles of fabric, all in colors in textures I love. It startles me that I would have chosen the exact same, if I'd gone with her. There are patterns for dresses, pants, jackets. They are thin as tissue paper, but extremely intimidating. There are words I don't understand about basting, and seam allowance. I'll have her explain them to me when my head doesn't hurt so much.
“I got out the manual so if you have an issue, it's there.” For after she's gone. “There's also the number of the guy in Lewiston who fixes them. He's really nice, don't be afraid to call him.” She's talking like she's going on a trip or something, just giving me care instructions for while she is gone. So calm. So rational. My strong mother.
“I'll take good care of it,” I say, trying to stay as calm as she is. If she can do it, so can I.
My insomnia gets worse as the days go by and we tick off more items from the list. I take whatever chance I get to run into my room and write everything down I can remember. My body is beyond exhausted, but I can't sleep. Somehow I still manage to function, even though I spend most of each night staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. I can't stop seeing Peter whenever I close my eyes. I also don't do anything to stop it. I've relived the moment when he turned on me. It doesn't seem so scary now. Further proof I'm coming unhinged from lack of sleep.
Four nights later, I have to ge
t out. The walls keep closing in on me, the house sucking all the air out of my lungs. Even with the open window, it's too much. The snoring from below is what finally decides it for me. The bruises on my neck are gone. I stare out the window, into the woods just beyond the house. I long for the darkness and cool stones. The names and the whispers of the dead you can almost hear. I miss my sanctuary. It's time to poke the tiger.
My fingers dig into the windowsill and I turn away. I'm going. Even if it hurts me.
***
He's not there. Part of me breathes a sigh of relief, and part of me is disappointed. I wanted to show him. To make a stand that I'm not scared. No matter what he does. Instead I walk between the stones, saying hello. Making conversation with these people that I've never seen. Whispering their names and listening to the rustle of the leaves.
Something flashes in the corner of my eye. I look, but there is nothing. Most likely it's a deer. In fact, your chances are better of being attacked by a deer than mugged in Maine. Maybe not my chances. I search the edge of the trees, looking for whatever it was. My feminine intuition sends up flares. Totally sexist, but true. Women have a sixth sense about things.
Hesitantly, I step closer to the woods that ring the cemetery. With my luck it's be a moose and it will charge me and I'll be eviscerated under its hooves. Did moose have hooves? Like horses? I shake my head. I'm losing. I peer closer, trying to make out anything in the darkness between the trees. They're old and thick here, like interlocked fingers, stretching to the sky.
“I'm not scared of you,” I call out. A rustle answers, but this time it comes from behind me. That damn mausoleum again. He must be here. “Peter?” I've never known him to make a lot of noise, but I really shouldn't make any assumptions about him. It hadn't ended well last time.
“Peter, are you here?”
I squint down the stairs, remembering only now that I've left the flashlight in my car. But I did bring the pepperspray. I hoped it worked on animals as well as people. I hadn't bothered with the whistle. There was no one around to hear it. The mausoleum doors are still wide open. This is my chance to see what the inside looks like.
One step at a time, I creep down the stairs, my muscles tensed and waiting for something to jump out and get me. I'm crouched, ready to run, reaching with the hand that doesn't have the pepperspray. I really should have brought the flashlight. I try to slow my breathing so I can listen.
“Hello?” The only thing that answers me is the echo of my own voice and silence. I have a crazy impulse and let out a scream. Nada. I relax and turn to go back up the stairs when a shadow catches my eye.
Propped in a corner, almost hidden is something rectangular-shaped. I hesitate before going over to see what it is. I can't believe I saw it; it's pretty small. I reach out and pick up the slim leather volume with gold lettering stamped on the front. It's too dark to read the title.
I open it, marveling at how thin the paper is. How old. Who left it here?
I take it out into the moonlight to read the title. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Huh. It's old, but the pages are intact, the gold leaf glowing.
I'd heard the story. Everyone had at least seen an adaptation, but I'd never read the original text.
I flip through the book again. My eyes spot a bookplate in the back. This book belongs to Ellen Mackintire. The writing is thin and the letters curl and dance around one another. I wonder who Ellen Mackintire was. And who left her book here. But I think I know.
I fold the book carefully in my shirt and walk back to my car, the leather cover soft against my skin. I've seen what I needed to see.
***
Part of me wondered at my own boredom. Why I was doing this. With her. Why I hadn't gone back to my life of always running, staying where I want to, feeding when I could. Always moving, never stopping. I had no home, no place. I didn't need one and don't belong to one. I was a nomad. As are many of my kind.
We do not get along with each other. Like wolves or lions. Predators of the same species that would rip each other apart in a second. I'd done it before.
In those four days I ran to her house, just once. Houses had always fascinated me. Groups of humans all huddled together, stepping over one another, breathing each other's air. I didn't get claustrophobic, but the idea of being inside a space like that with more of my kind made me uncomfortable.
Her mother was sick. I could smell it in her blood. Like acid, eating away at her cells. She didn't have long. Still, they smiled and laughed and ate and shared with each other. As natural for them as breathing.
She looked more like her father. I studied all of their faces, the changing expressions. None of them suspected I was there. I watched until they went to bed. I knew she would go to the cemetery. She was predictable, at least in that respect.
I ran alongside the road, watching the car headlights poking through the dark. I liked running parallel to the road. Never directly on it. Not because I was wary of being caught. The shark doesn't worry about being spotted by the fish. I simply liked the feel of earth beneath my feet. But I liked the order of the road as well. The white and yellow lines flowing along the black pavement.
Ivan and Di come and leave me again. She touched my cheek and made me repeat my promise before she left. One last twist of the dagger. Ivan looked at me, smelling Ava, but didn't ask. Di didn't have to say anything. She knew as well as I did that it would end soon. And we would be the way we always had been. Forever. I'd had my one day to fight it, which had passed for another year. After they departed, I dug up my trunk again. I couldn't bring myself to bury it this year. To put it in the ground and pretend it doesn't matter to me. It was all that I had.
I left the book for her. My mother's book. It would be safer with her than in the trunk, instinct told me that. My instincts are the only things I trust. She took it gingerly, as if it would fall apart in her hands. She looked for me, but I stayed hidden in the shadows. Always watching.
I scared her, the other night. The shadows of the bruises I left on her neck were still visible. It doesn't take much to bruise human skin. Like soft fruit.
I considered taking her right then, but waited. The seconds dripped away like raindrops. I didn't move. Instead I watched the moonlight on her hair. It felt like the beginning, when every hunt was exciting, set fire to my blood and made me want to run and tear things apart in the sheer madness of it all. I'd slaughtered entire towns in one night and seen the streets run with blood that I cupped my hands in and drank. Like water.
Those things would scare her. She wouldn't come back if she knew. So I left the book for her instead. So she would come back.
Chapter Twelve
Show Me
Do I really have a death wish? Am I suicidal and just not aware of it? Can you be suicidal without knowing it? Why am I talking to myself?
It's two nights later and I'm back. I'd spent the previous two racing through the book, knowing that he left it for me and using that as an excuse to think that he wasn't going to hurt me. Which is kind of like saying that guy who punched you in the face must be nice because he gave you a cookie afterwards. I totally blame the book. The only other thing that would have done it was a huge tin of fudge or chocolate cake. Then I would have been his slave for life. Something inside me pulls me there. I yearn to hear his quiet voice in the dark. His one-word answers. His hair in his face. I want it so much it hurts.
My heart skitters a bit when he isn't there. I sit down anyway, crossing my legs so they'll stop jumping around. Did I mention I'm nervous? Trying to prove that I'm not a total dumbass, I've brought the pepperspray this time. Not that it's going to do any good. I'm still going with my theory that he's not just a guy. Guy 2.0.
“You came,” I say, and my voice sounds relieved. Why? Why do I sound relieved? I try to stop the mental NASCAR race my thoughts are driving around in. Instead I stare at him. Same jeans, same shirt. Still dirty. No shoes.
This time he sits down next to me. My voice sounds cal
mer than I feel. “I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. I have to sleep sometime.” I hope he doesn't pick up on my struggle to keep things light. I can't talk about the elephant in the cemetery.
“Then do not come,” he says. As if it's that simple.
“I want to.” More than that. I need to. Even if it's reckless.
“Then you must decide.” I lean back, stretching my legs out in front of me. My feet will not stop twitching.
“I know.” He seems completely unaware that I am still staring at him, trying to figure him out. To figure out what draws me back here. I certainly don't have an explanation for it.
“You will stay.” His voice makes me look up from studying his toes.
“Yes.” I shift so I'm closer to him, hoping he won't move away. “Will you keep coming?”
“I will.” No hesitation. It makes me flush. I wish I were so sure of things.
“Why?” I ask. He looks up at the sky, like he's searching for answers. He looks back down at me, his hair shifting for a second to reveal his eyes. All I want to do is see them again. Let myself get pulled in. Trapped.
“I will come.”
“Suit yourself.” I bring out the book from my bag. I don't feel right keeping it, even though I'm not sure it's his. I still can't shake the name Ellen Mackintire. I'd thought about looking it up online, but I wanted to ask him about it. I just had to find the right time.
“Did you leave this for me?” I ask, even thought I know the answer.
“I did.” A direct answer! I want to throw some confetti on him or do a dance or something.
“Why?”
“I thought you would enjoy it. Did you not?” He talks like he's from an old movie or something. Not like a normal person. But I like it.
“No I did like it. I was just wondering where you got it. It's very old.” I gingerly hold it out to him.
“It took me many years to find it.” His hands stay where they are.
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