Ghostgirl ~ JB Salsbury

by Salsbury, JB

  Mine?

  Not my daughter, but mine?

  I take a step closer, and I swear the dude’s eyes spark to life. I don’t say anything out loud, but he receives the message I’m sending. I can tell by the slight unease that creeps into his almost perfect mask.

  No, pendejo, she’s mine.

  I’M MAKING A huge mistake, and I know it.

  But I don’t give a single fuck.

  I have finals today, but no way can I concentrate on school when at any minute those blood results could come in, and Mercy’s world could be uprooted. Again.

  Laura’s been on frantic phone calls all morning, dropping words like “release” and “confidential.” What I gather from it all is that Mercy’s getting out today. She’s coming home.

  Chris left last night to go spend the night at the hospital with Julian. He texted this morning and said my brother’s been asking for Tia Carla’s pozole and some SpongeBob DVDs, which means he’s doing better.

  I plan to drop Miguel off at school, swing by the hospital to spend some time with Jules, and be home by this afternoon in case Mercy shows up.

  Has it only been a week since I last saw her?

  Prom night feels like another lifetime. Worrying about Carrie getting too close to Mercy, the fight between Damian and MC Powderpuff—was it only nine days ago that I was worrying about things so trivial?

  Laura comes into the kitchen, shoving her phone into her purse and grabbing her to-go mug.

  “Any news?” I ask.

  “Not yet. They said they’d have the results of the bloodwork by this afternoon.” She turns and checks her watch before leaning a hip on the counter. “In my twenty-five years of doing this, I’ve never seen results come in that fast. This guy Mikkel must have friends in very high places.”

  “It’s shady as shit if you ask me,” I mumble under my breath, but she is so lost in thought she doesn’t even call me on it. “I don’t trust him.”

  “Emilio, if this turns out to be her biological father and she chooses to leave with him, you cannot interfere.”

  The fuck I won’t.

  She must see something in my eyes, because she takes a step closer. “I’m serious, Milo. Mercy needs your support more than anyone’s.”

  “I support her. I support her one hundred percent. And there’s no way in hell I’m letting her leave with that guy.”

  She jerks as if my words were a verbal whip. “Your resurfacing feelings of abandonment are understand—”

  “Abandonment?” I cough out a humorless laugh. “Is that what you think this is? Don’t throw what’s happening here in a box of bullshit diagnosis and therapy.”

  Her eyes narrow on mine.

  Good. I’m glad I have her attention. “I am in love with her.”

  Miguel stumbles into the kitchen and freezes at hearing my confession. Fine by me. Sooner everyone knows the truth, the better.

  Laura’s mouth gapes.

  “We have plans, plans that we were going to put aside until she was old enough, but I’m warning you now, if those blood results come back that she’s who that suit says she is, then we’re moving forward with our plans now.”

  “And what if she decides to go with her father?”

  “She won’t.” No way will she give up what we have for a guy she’s never met before, blood or no blood.

  “Promise me if she decides to go with him and see where this leads, you’ll let her go.”

  I’m shaking my head before she’s even done speaking.

  “Milo, please . . .”

  I snag my backpack off the table. “I’m not letting her go.”

  Maybe Laura wasn’t completely wrong and some shit from my past is resurfacing. I turned a blind eye to warning signs in the past, and because of that I lost my mom.

  I won’t do that again.

  I won’t lose Mercy.

  Mercy

  “ARE YOU SURE you’re ready to do this? There’s no rush.” Laura’s soft voice cuts through the music in the too-warm car. “You have all the time in the world to decide what you want to do.”

  I was told last night while watching Finding Nemo in a room with other girls like me—mentally unstable girls—that I’d be going home with Laura. I was told my biological father came forth to claim me.

  My father.

  The word sounds foreign in my head.

  After I had a few days to rest in the facility, the psychological testing started. I knew the answers they wanted, told them what they needed to hear, and passed all the tests, proving I was not a threat to myself or anyone else.

  I’m finally free, yet my soul still feels like a prisoner, which is why I’m insisting Laura make a stop on our way home. There’s just one thing I have to do, one thing to put behind me before I can move on. Laura might think it’s too soon. I think it’s nineteen years too late.

  “I’m sure,” I say.

  But now that I’m here, the sun throwing shadows over the city as it melts into the horizon, a flutter of nerves is beginning to set in.

  I haven’t seen or heard from Milo since the night he saw me trying desperately to heal Julian, the night I became Angel again. What must he think of me now? I remember him pleading with me to let his brother go. Does he hate me for trying? Did I destroy the trust we managed to build between us?

  When Laura told me about the man who came forward, claiming to be my biological father, it made no difference to me at all. She told me about my abduction and said my biological mother was mentally unstable and ended up taking her own life years after I went missing. She told me this . . . man, my father, was here to bring me home.

  What home?

  The only place that’s ever felt like home has been in Milo’s arms.

  First, I am an angel put on this earth to heal and save humanity.

  For three months, I’m Mercy, the normal high school girl with the abnormal DNA.

  And now I am Genevieve, daughter to a wealthy South African philanthropist.

  I feel like none of those people.

  I’m an empty shell.

  Milo was right.

  I am Ghostgirl.

  “Mercy, how does all this make you feel?”

  I stare blankly out the window in front of me. I always thought not having a place to belong would be worse than belonging in too many different places.

  I was wrong.

  “Empty.”

  I can trust no one, not even Laura. I screwed up by trying to help Julian—I can admit that—but she had me locked up like a wild animal or a criminal, not a daughter.

  “You have a family. A place you’ll feel like you belong.”

  I’ll never feel like I belong with a stranger. “Are we almost there?”

  She nods, and I don’t miss the loud puff of air that escapes her lips.

  The rest of the ride is silent, and before too long, we’re pulling up to a hotel that looks more like a castle from one of Julian’s movies.

  A man in a tan-colored uniform opens my door. “Welcome to the . . .” His gaze zeroes in on my face, and his eyes widen, reminding me how unnatural, abnormal I really am. “Ch-Chateau Marmont.”

  Laura grabs my hand, keeping me from getting out of the car. “Mercy, it’s not too late to back out.”

  I look down at her hand, pull free from her hold, and get out of the car. I don’t bother pulling up the hood of my sweatshirt, and I don’t worry about the shorts that show off my bare legs or my white hair catching the breeze. I make eye contact with everyone who stares, allowing them to drink in their fill.

  “We’re here to meet Mr. Vanderburgh. He’s expecting us,” Laura explains to the men in the uniforms.

  One of them pushes on his ear and speaks into an earpiece and then nods to the man who opened my side door. “Paul will take you up.”

  I follow the man named Paul as he directs us through the doors to a bank of elevators. I study my surroundings, knowing the place we’re in is something special, an extravagance I’ve never
seen before and probably never will again, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to care.

  If Milo were with me, I’d insist on running my hands along the velvety couch cushions, memorizing the intricate woodwork, closing my eyes and breathing in the rich air, putting life on pause for the sake of learning and experiencing something new.

  Instead, I’m hoping to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  We step into the elevator, and I have a brief moment of panic as the doors slide closed, trapping us into the small space.

  Was it only three months ago that I preferred the comfort of a compact room? The very idea of standing in a wide-open space where people could move around me freely was enough to induce my anxiety.

  How quickly time has changed me.

  The elevator comes to a halt, and the doors slide open. I keep my eyes to the floor as we follow the man to a door. My pulse speeds, wondering what kind of person will be waiting for me on the other side.

  Will I feel a connection to him immediately?

  Or will he look no more familiar to me than the man rapping his knuckles against the solid wood door?

  A woman in a uniform similar to that of the man who showed us to the room answers with a smile—some kind of a servant, I suppose.

  “Mr. Vanderburgh is expecting you,” she says politely and steps back to allow us inside. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting on the terrace?”

  “Sure.” Laura thanks them and leads me through the room to a large sliding glass door.

  Outside are comfortable-looking cushioned chairs and tables. The servant instructs us to take a seat.

  “He’ll be with you in a moment. Would you care for something to drink—”

  “No, thank you.” I answer for both of us, needing to finish this up quickly while I still have the nerve to face it.

  Rather than sitting, I head to the edge of the terrace, which overlooks Los Angeles. Nothing is beautiful about the view. It’s only a crowded city with low-lying smog hanging over everything like a noxious blanket. I wish we were closer to the ocean. The waves would soothe me as they did the first time I sat at the shoreline with Milo. I can see myself living there in a small house that overlooks the sea, where I can fall asleep every night, listening to the waves.

  I lied to Laura. I told Laura I didn’t have a plan for what I want to do with my life now that I have a name and birthdate, an identity. I know what I want, and I can finally insist I get it. Once I clean the slate of my past, I plan to rebuild myself. I’ll get a job and a modest place to live, and I’ll recreate myself, figure out who I am without being Angel, without Señora or Papa, without Laura and Chris. I’ll figure it out on my own, without any influence from—

  The sharp sound of footsteps—someone wearing dressy shoes—brings my eyes from the LA skyline to my hands, clasping the terrace wall. I hear soft murmuring from Laura and my biological father, I assume.

  “Mercy?” Laura says. “I’ll just be right inside if you need me.”

  I nod.

  The sliding glass door closes, and I hear nothing but the whirl of wind as it glides past my ears. Then the steady click of sure footsteps draws closer. My skin tingles with awareness when he stops behind me.

  “Hello, Angel.”

  My breath freezes in my lungs.

  “Don’t scream. Don’t yell. Don’t make a move, or Laura dies.”

  It’s him.

  My pulse rages in my throat. “I remember you.” His eyes are the color of the sky I so desperately longed for. His touch was a promise of safety and protection. He was supposed to be my freedom.

  “That’s good news.” His words are low and rumble like a purr.

  I close my eyes as visions assault me—the dark-colored robes and the arguments in another language ringing in my ears even now.

  “You’re not my father.” Or my protector. Papa was protecting me from him.

  He takes another step closer, and I wonder briefly if I’d die or fly if I jump over the edge.

  “No.”

  “The blood test.”

  “I did what I needed to in order to get you back.” He pushes up beside me so that I can see his black shirt in my periphery.

  “My name, my age, my mother—was it all a lie?” My voice shakes, and I’m surprised to discover that’s due to fury, not sadness.

  He turns to face the city, putting his elbows on the terrace wall just inches from me. Seconds pass, and I look over at him, fearing his icy-blue eyes will have the same effect they used to. He sets them on mine and I feel . . . nothing. Not fear. Not relief. They’re as empty as I am.

  “As far as I know, you are nineteen years old,” he says. “That much is true.”

  I go back to watching the city. “Do you know how I came to be with Papa?”

  “No. That was never a concern.” He turns around and leans his weight against his elbows. “I paid a lot of money for you, Angel. Once you turned eighteen, you were mine to do with as I wish.” His arm is so close that his knuckles rub against me. “When I went to claim you, you were gone. Now that I have you back, I won’t let you get away again.”

  A surge of anger boils up from my belly. “I will not go with you.”

  “You will,” he says lightly, almost as if my refusal is funny to him. “Because if you don’t, everyone you love will die, starting with Emilio Vega.”

  I bite the inside of my mouth until I draw blood. “Who says I love him? I don’t care about him at all.” The lie makes the anger in my gut turn to vomit, and I swallow back the urge to heave at his feet.

  “I thought your kind weren’t capable of lying.” There’s a smile in his voice.

  “We both know I’m nothing but a girl.”

  He shrugs one shoulder and frowns. “Sure, we know it, but they don’t.”

  He must sense the confusion in my silence.

  “Those who believe in and pay top dollar for muti.”

  I wonder if I misheard, for I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  “Black magic, Angel. In Africa, people pay millions for it. They believe albinos carry the cure to many things: poverty, misfortune, infertility.” He laughs. “You know they even believe you can cure AIDS?”

  I frown.

  “You wouldn’t know the first thing about AIDS, would you?” Now he frowns too, but it’s mocking. “Don’t worry, Angel,” he whispers. “You will, eventually. There are other things more valuable that I’ll need from you first. Would you like to know how much your innocence is worth?”

  My stomach turns over on itself again, and I grip my gut over my sweatshirt.

  “Two and a half million dollars.” His blue eyes bore into mine. “And that’s just the beginning.”

  “No . . .” I’m about to scream. I need to scream, but . . .”Laura.”

  He chews his lip to keep from smiling. “Do you think if she knew how much people were willing to pay to bed you that she’d protect you?” He runs his fingers down a strand of my hair. “Ten thousand for your hair.” He pulls at my wrist and tweaks my pinkie, and I stumble away. “Fifteen thousand for one finger.”

  “You intend to butcher me,” I whisper, my entire body vibrating with the need to run and hide.

  He frowns. “No. Not yet. First, I want to milk every penny out of you while you’re still young and beautiful. Then when you become useless or, say . . . defy me, I’ll happily sell off your parts.”

  “You’re a viper.” It’s the only word that comes to mind, the only word to describe the evil he speaks of.

  “You think my old rafiki, who you call Papa, was doing any different? The healings weren’t real. Even you know that now. But God, Angel. You were so convincing. I would’ve loved to have been able to keep you in the dark, keep you feeling like you were doing some good while I sell access to your body to the highest bidder.” He makes a clicking sound with his mouth. “It’s a shame, really, but no bother. You’ll just have to pretend.”

  “I will not,” I spit through my teeth.<
br />
  “Oh, you will. Here’s what happens next.” He steps close. His eyes, which once represented freedom and possibility, now resemble a deep watery grave. “You will go home with Laura and not speak a word of this to anyone. Tomorrow before sunrise, you’ll sneak out of the house and meet me behind the abandoned gas station down the street. Do you know the one?”

  I stare defiantly back at him, refusing to answer.

  He grins. “I hope you do, because if you’re not there by four o’clock in the morning, I’ll personally slit the throats of everyone in that house. Don’t think about going to the police. After all, do you really think they’ll believe the strange girl with a history of mental illness?” He chuckles and then sobers instantly. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, they’ll all be dead before you even know what happened.”

  When I don’t answer, his muscles tense in his shoulders.

  “It’s you or them. Make your choice.”

  My lungs constrict, and I struggle for a full breath. He smiles. He has me cornered, outnumbered. He’s preying on my one and only weakness, my duty to others and the love I have for them.

  “That’s what I thought.” He reaches for my hand, and I flinch as his palm covers mine.

  Once, I craved his touch and imagined he was my salvation, but his embrace is a cold steel cage that snaps closed around me. He lifts my hand to his lips, placing a frigid kiss on my knuckles that makes my heart ice over.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Angel.”

  With that, he walks away with my life in his hands.

  Milo

  WHEN I WAS a little kid, my mom used to make me go outside when one of Dad’s parties got too rough. I didn’t know that’s what she was doing at the time. Back then, I thought she really just wanted me to count the stars with her. Miguel was a baby, and the three of us would lie on a blanket in the grass.

  In the city, finding even a few stars was nearly impossible, what with all the lights, but she’d tell us, “Even though you can’t see them, they’re there.”

  I pretended I saw them. I’d count and count and count the make-believe stars until I finally fell asleep, and I’d always wake up in the morning, tucked safely into my own bed.