The pixielike mortician blanched, her pale skin growing even paler. “The body – your ex-husband – is not in good condition, Ms Dawson.”
“I’ve watched surgeons strip the flesh from my daughter’s face, Ms Ratcliff. I watched her struggle for breath, positive she would die before her seventh birthday. I can see my ex-husband’s corpse, and you will show him to me.”
This was not technically true, as she had no legal right to view the body. Still, Imani spoke calmly, as though this were a done deal, and the only thing to be gained by protesting was hours’ worth of frustrating debate.
The mortician squeezed her cane nervously, then required Imani to sign a form indemnifying the funeral home from potential emotional distress. Which seemed fitting.
Once the signatures were complete, the mortician swung the lid open.
Imani allowed herself one gasp. They hadn’t had her identify him, because his face was shattered. Yet Paul’s medical records were so well-known he would have been impossible to misidentify. His head was wrapped in Saran Wrap to hold its remnants together, his body wrapped in plastic to prevent leakage. She saw his stump, rimmed with red callous from where he jammed it into his artificial foot. Paul’s half-severed toes, unwelcome new additions.
“That’s not him,” Imani muttered. But she had no reason to believe that.
“What’s that, Ms Dawson?”
“Nothing.”
Maybe she was going mad.
* * *
She drove out to the LisAnna Foundation, rejuvenating her spirits with a large iced coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts. The day’s events had exhausted her. But she would not leave Aliyah alone on the day of her daddy’s funeral, even if it meant three hours of driving.
Imani pulled into the parking lot, glad to arrive before the sun set.
Please, let Aliyah be in a good mood today, she prayed to no god in particular.
She could never predict Aliyah’s moods. One day, Aliyah would be flinging books at her, her face flushed black with anger, yelling “You want to kill me!” And another day Aliyah would be sweet, settling in as Imani read her yet another classic book – Imani had started choosing classic stories with no mothers or fathers in them, like Pippi Longstocking or The Phantom Tollbooth – and Aliyah would drink her words up.
The therapists suggested Aliyah might be schizophrenic, or borderline autistic, or some other lifelong syndrome.
Imani believed, with the irrationality she believed that Paul wasn’t dead, that if she could reach Aliyah she could heal her. The lightning stroke. Just one revelation, and all would be well.
The therapists, and in particular repellent old Mr Jimenez, chuckled and said this was unhelpful thinking. Hollywood thinking. There was no miracle cure for your daughter, they’d said – just iceberg progress, two steps forward, three steps back.
To Imani, though, Aliyah felt like a festering wound. Once that wound was lanced…
…alas, it wouldn’t be today. Not on the day of her daddy’s funeral. Imani envied Aliyah’s closeness with Paul, maybe even missed that connection to her ex-husband himself, but today Aliyah would be devastated.
She got her visitor’s badge from the security guard, let them escort her to Aliyah’s room. “She’s not playing with the other kids today,” the guard said.
Aliyah was curled up on the couch, hugging her knees. But Imani had learned she couldn’t sweep Aliyah up in a hug nowadays – she had to sit next to Aliyah, let Aliyah come to her on her own terms.
She sat down.
Aliyah inched closer.
And Aliyah looked older. Her once-bright eyes had hollows. Her mouth, so carefully reconstructed after the fire, sagged at the edges. She moved like a beaten pet.
Imani’s arms itched to engulf Aliyah in a great big Mommy hug and squeeze her until the tears flowed.
Instead, she took out a book from her purse. “Today’s book is The Borrowers,” she said. “It’s... a little weird, but I thought you might like it…”
“Can we go outside?” Aliyah whispered.
“…what?”
“Can we go for a walk?” She put her mouth to Imani’s ear. “It’s nice out. I just… want to walk.” She looked at the ceiling as though there was something there, but Imani saw no spiders.
Imani breathed easier. Aliyah hadn’t wanted to go outside since she’d started attending the school.
“Let me check with Mr Jimenez.”
“No.” Aliyah trembled. “No, you can’t.”
“Sweetie, the grounds are locked. I can’t just take you out, I have to get permission.”
“But he won’t…” She sagged, disappointed. “OK.”
By the time she exited the room, Mr Jimenez walked briskly down the corridor, looking agitated. She got his attention. There was something familiar about Jimenez, a sour authoritarian aura; it drove Imani crazy, pinpointing where she’d met him, because normally she was good with faces.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Jimenez bowed. “Can I help you, Ms Dawson?”
“Aliyah has requested to go outdoors for a walk. I’d like to take my daughter on a stroll around the grounds. Would you open the back gates for me?”
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no.” Imani loathed the fussy way Jimenez snapped off his denial. “Aliyah is not well. You know what today is?”
“I just came from his funeral,” she snapped. “I believe I have an idea.”
“Yes, of course.” He headbobbed a rather unconvincing apology. “But Aliyah has been very unstable as of late, and our grounds, you see, they don’t have proper monitoring. We don’t let patients walk outside.”
“A grievous omission, I’d think. The outdoors is critical to children’s development.”
“But these are... they’re different children, Ms Dawson,” he protested. “And the escape risk–”
“Is minimal, given that I run 10ks every other weekend. I think I can outpace a small girl who, for the first time since she arrived, wants to go for a walk with her mother.”
“Of course, of course. If you’ll hold while I get an orderly to escort you–”
“I didn’t ask for an escort.” Imani unveiled that razor-lined smile she’d perfected in boardrooms. “I want some time alone with my child.”
“But she could overreact! Violently!”
“In which case I will carry her back in a way that ensures she does not hurt herself. Or is that a problem, Mr Jimenez?”
“Of course, no, no. No. It’s not.” He seethed quietly.
Good. She liked putting a pin in this prick. Aliyah beamed at her while Jimenez went out and opened the gates for them, and Imani drank in that happy sensation of feeling like a hero to her daughter.
She took Aliyah’s hand and led her out onto the great grass lawn. The entire school was ringed by large stone walls and a southerly thatch of trees, as you’d expect at an Institute far out in the boondocks.
Aliyah’s feet crunched on dead leaves as she plodded away from the school, putting as much distance between it and her as she could. Imani trailed behind, letting Aliyah guide her.
And when Aliyah got to the far woods, she dropped to her knees and began to cry.
Oh, crap, Imani thought shamefully. Maybe she wasn’t prepared to go outside. She usually didn’t countermand the people she’d hired. Why did Mr Jimenez get up her snoot so much?
But she waved off the orderlies stepping out of the Foundation doorways – then put her arms around Aliyah.
“I’m a bad person,” Aliyah whispered, with the air of a dreadful confession.
“You’re not, sweetie.”
“I am.”
Imani turned her daughter to face her. “Sweetie, you could never do anything so bad that I wouldn’t love you.”
Aliyah cried harder. Wrong thing to say, apparently. “What if I killed someone?”
Imani hesitated. “Why do you... you couldn’t–”
“I did, Mommy. I’m a murderer. I killed the bad ’mancer, and Dadd
y warned me I didn’t want to be that kind of person, and I thought I was, but I wasn’t…”
“Sweetie, your Daddy killed the ’mancer.”
“Daddy doesn’t kill anyone. I thought that was bad, but it wasn’t. I was too selfish, I didn’t appreciate Daddy, and he left…”
“He didn’t ‘leave’, sweetie. He’s…” She debated how to approach things here, decided honesty was best. “He’s dead. And that’s not your fault.”
“He’s not dead.”
Aliyah said it with such casual force that Imani believed her.
“And I killed Anathema.” Aliyah sobbed so hard, her words would have been incoherent to anyone else. “I’m a murderer, and a mean girl, and I am the worst thing in the world to you. You want me dead. You’ve always wanted me dead. And now I’m in a place where I’d rather be dead, so I’m telling you, and I wish I didn’t have to…”
“I don’t want you dead!” Imani’s voice sent birds scattering. “Sweetie, I don’t know why you think I want you dead. You keep saying that, but there is no force on Earth that would make me hurt you. Why do you keep saying that?”
Aliyah brought her head back in a hard sniffle, turning to face her mother. “Because I’m a ’mancer.”
Imani stopped breathing. Her arms stiffened around her daughter, her brow furrowing in confusion. She gave Aliyah a hard stare, uncertain who this thing was in her embrace.
Aliyah shivered in her mother’s arms, squeezing her eyes shut, not wanting to watch what came next.
Then Imani breathed again – a puff of surprise. A joyous grin touched her lips, as though after a long time, she was finally, utterly, in on the joke.
“Why, that explains everything,” she said, and when she hugged Aliyah to show her nothing had changed, Aliyah pressed her whole body into her like she had back in the old days, trusting her, that wound lanced once and for all.
Forty-Seven
Imani vs the ’Mancers
“So… did you have a good conversation?” Mr Jimenez asked as Imani brought Aliyah back to the school gate. His voice was light. But as they had walked back across the green, Imani had noted every staff member lining up along the windows, watching them.
I have to leave you here, Imani said, after Aliyah had explained everything. Because if I try to take you away, they will kill me. The only way we can survive is to pretend nothing has changed. Do you understand?
Aliyah nodded. But you’ll find Daddy?
I know where he is. And Aliyah had trusted her, even though Imani was guessing where Paul had fled, and wasn’t sure this “Rainbird” character hadn’t killed him.
But she knew how corporate executives worked. If Imani grew too troublesome, they’d need Paul back to sign custody over to them. No good CEO would destroy a resource when they could leave them on hold.
Imani handed Aliyah off to an orderly. Aliyah sobbed, as Imani had instructed: Cry like you’re terrified, she’d said. Mommy will come back for you.
Aliyah wailed as the orderly hauled her away.
“I’m sorry to ask, Ms Dawson,” Jimenez said, creeping closer. Payne. That was Payne, the cheap bastard. “But it’s useful for us to know what Aliyah is talking about. If you wouldn’t mind sharing…?”
A threat, cloaked in a request. If she balked, Rainbird would burn her.
But Payne was no different than Imani’s executive clients. Every CEO thought they could read their lawyer’s emotions. And every lawyer knew if your CEO saw any hint of disgust at their money-grubbing, sociopathic behavior, you’d be out of a job.
Try my poker face, Imani thought, giving Payne a rueful half smile.
“She’s…” Imani sighed. “She refuses to acknowledge her father is dead. I tried not to contradict her, because she got angry whenever I tried to explain how death works, but… she’s not dealing well with this, is she?”
As she turned the question back to the so-called authorities, Payne relaxed.
“She’s not,” Payne assured her. “Did she say anything else?”
“She’s developed all these crazy fantasies about murdering people. She thinks... she thinks she burns people alive. Probably leftover survivor’s guilt from the apartment fire. And...” She covered her eyes, sniffling. “Forgive me. It’s… hard to listen to her. I tried to be supportive, but…”
Payne took the bait, sliding into his caregiver mode. He put his arm around her shoulders.
“There, there, Ms Dawson. It’s always tough when a small child loses her grip on reality.”
“Of course. Maybe I shouldn’t…”
“Oh, it speaks well of you to come here, Ms Dawson. But between your ex-husband’s death and your husband’s disappearance, well… you must take care of yourself. Let the professionals take care of Aliyah. That’s what we’re paid to do.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Imani allowed, thinking, I will take care of all of you.
But first, I have to get Paul.
Forty-Eight
The Illustromancer’s Legacy
Imani hadn’t remembered the exact location of the alley Paul would have retreated to. Googling old headlines made her heart race. She’d never forgotten that phone call.
Your husband, Mrs Tsabo – he tracked down the ’mancer. Alone.
Imani had felt the world slow to a halt then, an avalanche of loss threatening to bury her in grief. Is he…
No, no, he’s alive, the officer had told her, his voice suffused with wonder. In critical condition, but alive. Something magical attacked him before he shot the bitch dead, but… But his ankle’s crushed. They... they can’t save his foot.
That grief avalanche roared past, leaving Imani elated. On some level, she’d never expected Paul to survive. Once Paul dug into a case, he would not let it go – and Paul had taken out every book in the library on Titian, the illustromancer’s obsession, spreading them out upon the bedsheets so he could gaze upon the paintings for hours.
She’d never understood why this case had seized him above all others.
But Paul had taken to wandering around in his off-duty hours, squinting as he tried to see New York through the illustromancer’s eyes. And while Imani found Paul’s single-minded devotion charming – he’d outwooed her suitors in college, doggedly remaining while she’d dated enough men to realize how special Paul was – this ’mancer obsession had filled her with dread.
She’d wanted to tell him to stop, but… shutting that down would have shut down a vital part of her husband. This would pass, she told herself. Once he finds her, he’ll call in SMASH.
But of course he hadn’t.
Of course he’d tried to arrest her singlehandedly.
And for a moment, suspended in that pause between two sentences from an awkward cop, Paul had been dead. Now he was alive again, and she didn’t care about his deformity – he was still hers.
He had died, and come back.
Except Paul had never recovered. He’d withdrawn. Like Aliyah, she’d known he kept some secret, perhaps even from himself – but Aliyah came by her stubbornness honestly. Paul brimmed with self-hatred, so Imani tried to explain how ’mancers were walking rips in reality, shooting them was a kindness…
She’d tried so hard to pull him out of the mire of his self-loathing. Then she’d sought comfort in someone else’s arms – and in the aftermath of David, some days she wondered if she’d chosen a lover who was Paul’s polar opposite in an attempt to goad Paul back into caring about something.
Now, as she walked into the alleyway where the illustromancer had set up shop – she’d seen the pictures where that poor deranged woman had plastered the walls with Titian posters, in the back alley of what once had been a frame shop – she knew why Paul pursued the magic, and realized how toxic her ’mancer-hating statements had been.
“Paul.”
She spoke confidently, feeling she could will Paul into being here.
No answer. The alley was dark. The Italian restaurant flanking this alley had closed for the n
ight, though the diner next door was still open.
Something skittered over the garbage bags in the dumpster.
“Paul,” she said: louder, angrier. The man had cost her a good marriage with his damn closed-mouthedness. He owed her a discussion.
Still no answer.
“Paul!” she yelled. She leapt into the dumpster, not caring about her $500 Donna Karan scarf….
…and there he was. He stared up with unseeing eyes, pale. She couldn’t recall seeing Paul with so much as a five o’clock shadow – but a ragged beard had grown on him, like lichen.
She was so grateful she wanted to punch him.
He blinked, as if fearing her an illusion. “…Imani?”
“Paul.”
“…no. I’m… not him. I pulled myself down from the stars. I’m…” He closed his eyes, sank back down into the dumpster. “I’m nobody.”
“Are you the man who married me? Are you the father of Aliyah Tsabo-Dawson, our child?”
He looked stunned. “Yes.”
“Then you’re somebody.” She reached down for him. “Come back.”
* * *
Imani went next door to fetch Paul a meal from the diner, which got some looks – her fine Zac Posen suit was smeared with dumpster gravy – but she returned as soon as possible.
“Here,” she said. “Coffee is love.”
Paul cupped his diner coffee as though he was huddled over a campfire. Imani found the gesture endearing – so endearing she reached over and took his hands.
“So… you know?” he asked, blinking owlishly.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Aliyah told me.”
He squinted. “And you’re… OK with this?”
She whistled, low and long.
“I don’t know if ‘OK’ is the right word, Paul. It… makes sense. I’ll figure out how OK I am with it later, but right now I feel relieved. I can start fixing things.”
He grimaced. “I... thought you’d turn us in.”
The Flux Page 31
