by Debra Doxer
She pulls in a deep breath and manages to hold herself together. “Her name was Emily. He paid her one-hundred and fifty thousand dollars. She told him she was giving the money to her granddaughter to help pay for college.” She turns red-rimmed eyes up to mine. “I feel like I should do something. I should find her family and apologize or thank them, but I don’t think they know what she did for them.”
I squeeze her hands, not sure what to tell her. Although I think approaching this woman’s family is probably a bad idea.
“At least I know now,” she says. Then she sits back in the chair, reclaiming her hands, trying to show me that she’s okay. “I finally know everything.”
But she had to walk through fire to learn it. She had to nearly die. We both did, and every time I think it’s over, it’s not. Even now, as we’re sitting here, her phone dings with a text message. She looks at me curiously because I’m still the only person who texts her. Kyle always calls. Nikki hasn’t talked to her since she told her she was withdrawing from school.
Since I’m closer, I reach for her bag on the table and pull out her phone. She takes it and looks at the screen. Then she sucks in a harsh breath.
“Who’s it from?” I ask.
She doesn’t move. She’s still staring at it.
I pull it from her hand and see that it’s a Los Angeles area code.
It’s done. No one gets to hurt you without paying for it.
When I look back at her, wide and fearful eyes stare up at me. “It’s from Grant,” she says. “He did something to Alec.”
AFTER SEEING the text, Raielle wanted to call the police, or even Kyle, but I convinced her not to. Grant’s text said it was done. If Raielle was right about what that meant, there was no point in exposing ourselves and what we knew. All we could do was wait.
The next morning, after being up all night, Raielle finally called Kyle’s house. She planned to pretend it was a casual call to say hello, although I doubted she could pull that off. She didn’t have to, though. Chloe answered and said Kyle couldn’t come to the phone because he was at his father’s house with Linda. After being missing for hours, Linda had discovered Alec in the garage this morning, lying on the cold concrete floor. She swore she looked in the garage earlier and saw no sign of him. But this morning, there he was, lying dead, and the reason wasn’t immediately apparent. They think it was probably natural causes, though, maybe a stroke or a heart attack.
Only we know differently.
We’re certainly not mourning him, but we are shocked, walking around in a daze wondering what exactly Grant did to Alec, and if Alec knew why his life was ending. I can see that Raielle is struggling to figure out how she feels. Guilt and remorse for Penelope and Kyle’s loss, combined with justified satisfaction for herself, make for a dense and confusing jumble of emotions.
We stay away from the funeral. We stay away from everyone for a while. Knowing how much Raielle hates deception of any kind, I spend a lot of time convincing her that there’s no point in telling Kyle the truth. She seems to agree with me, but I feel her hesitance. I doubt Kyle suspects anything. From what we hear, foul play hasn’t been raised as a possibility. Grant doesn’t appear to have left any evidence of the truth behind.
The strange thing is I feel like I understand Grant. Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I get why he gave Raielle the file and took care of Alec for her. If I were a different kind of person, one more like Grant who thought the normal rules of society didn’t apply to me, I might have done the same things. But sometimes his attempts to do good are so extreme, he ends up inadvertently doing bad things, and he doesn’t seem to understand that.
Two weeks have passed now since Grant showed up and turned everything upside down, and it’s been rough, but we’ve been through worse, and we’re slowly getting our equilibrium back. At some point during that time, I decided we should leave sooner rather than later. It’s easier for us to get lost in a city than it is here. I don’t think Grant will come back again, but Raielle’s been found in Fort Upton too many times, and although she hasn’t said anything, I know she’s anxious to go.
“My mom wants us to come by in the morning so she can say good-bye,” I call out to her.
Raielle walks toward me, bringing the last of the dinner dishes to the sink. She’s made us dinner several times since we’ve been here, and she’s a good cook. Although true to her word, she hasn’t cooked dinner for me naked yet.
A smile plays on her lips, and she seems pleased that my mom wants to see us.
My mother is better. There’s no question about it. The darkness has lifted. She complains about how closely I watch her, looking for cracks, wondering if she’s pretending for my sake. But I don’t think she is pretending. I honestly believe her depression is gone, and so does she.
Mom and Raielle have gotten close over the past couple of weeks. They talk nearly every day, or at least my mom talks. Raielle smiles and listens. Could be she’s telling embarrassing stories about me. Who knows? But they seem to genuinely like each other, and I completely love that.
I figure the dishes can wait as I pull her to me and plant a kiss on her unsuspecting lips. She sighs and leans into me the way she always does when I touch her.
“What do you want to do tonight?” I ask, since it’s still early. I’m wondering if she wants to go out for a change, even though I’d rather keep her all to myself again. “Want to catch a movie?”
“I don’t really feel like going to the movies,” she says, eyeing me. “Maybe we could watch something here?”
I easily agree, taking her hand to lead her into the family room. Leaving her by the couch, I walk over and open the cabinet of DVDs Liam and I have collected. “What do you feel like? Comedy, drama…porn?” I waggle my eyebrows on the last one.
She tilts her head at me. “You keep porn in the family room?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
She laughs and crosses her arms. “Does it really matter what we watch? We haven’t finished a movie yet. Last time the opening credits were still on when you started mauling me.”
I narrow my eyes, acting offended, but the band around my chest loosens because she’s teasing me. She’s being playful. Something she couldn’t have managed only yesterday. I give her a stern look. “Did you just use the word maul? You think I maul you?”
One of her shoulders lifts, and there’s a dim but visible gleam in her eye.
I take a step toward her. “Mauling is for horny kids copping a feel for the first time.” With my eyes glued to hers, I take another determined step and she straightens, her playfulness changing to awareness.
“Mauling is for unskilled amateurs.” My next step brings our chests into contact, and I try not to grin arrogantly when she pulls in a soft breath. I raise my hand to her cheek as her eyes flutter closed. Then I lower my mouth to her ear. “I don’t maul you, Ray. I play you like an instrument.”
My fingers massage the back of her neck as I nibble on her ear. “Strumming your strings.” Slowly, my hand moves down to palm her breast through her shirt while my thumb brushes over her nipple. “Caressing your keys.”
Her fingers grip my shoulders for support as her breathing turns shallow.
Next I trail my hand down over her stomach to the juncture of her thighs, which I know must be throbbing by now. “And banging your drum.” I apply pressure.
She moans and falls against me.
“Want to start that movie now?” I whisper into her hair. She shakes her head, and I laugh softly. “I didn’t think so.”
I CAN see it coming, the cab and the bike messenger about to collide. I yell out a warning, but I know there’s no chance of anyone hearing. Beside me, a tall girl, almost as tall as me, turns her head to see what I’m looking at. Her hand travels up to her open mouth just as the front fender of the yellow cab swipes the back wheel, jerking the bike and its rider up into the air. All around me, heads tilt upward watching the shocking ascension and then the crushing l
anding of first the rider and then the bike onto the curb, just in front of where I’m standing. Everyone stills in silent disbelief for a moment before the shock gives way to panic, and people start pushing toward him.
I hover at the periphery, watching as his helmet is removed. His blond hair is plastered to his forehead, and his face is crumpled in confusion. Around me, onlookers offer advice.
“Don’t move him.”
“I called 911. You’ll be okay. Just lie still.”
“Excuse me. I’m a nurse,” says the tall girl who was standing beside me. When she cuts a path through the crowd, I now have a clear view of the bike messenger. Since I’m barely four feet away, I can sense his pain.
I watch as the girl checks his pulse. When she takes his hand and asks him a question, he starts to panic, his eyes widening and his mouth turning down with fear. Inadvertently, I’ve been inching closer. When I look down, my foot is nearly touching his bent leg, which is half on and half off the curb.
“It’s going to be all right. Help is on the way,” the girl says soothingly. She seems too young to be a nurse with her messy dark bun and ripped, artfully patched jeans. Sirens sound in the distance and the crowd starts to back away. That’s when I decide to touch him. I can’t help myself. The moment my fingers find the exposed skin at his wrist, I understand that life as he knows it is over. His neck is broken. He’s paralyzed.
It’s been months since I used my energy, and it’s begging for release. As the ambulance sirens blare, trying to part traffic, I check to make sure no one is paying attention to me. Then I close my eyes and breathe out slowly, letting the power inside me flow into him. The energy snakes throughout his body, finding the damage and repairing it, regenerating what’s broken. I finish just as the paramedics arrive, loudly shooing the remaining onlookers away. I step back while still watching. A smile blooms on my face because the usual high is kicking in, and I no longer feel any pain coming from the bike messenger.
When he suddenly sits up and smiles, the nurse gasps.
The paramedics are beside him now, asking him what hurts. He replies, “Nothing,” and tries to stand, but they tell him to remain down until they can check him over.
When I glance over at the nurse, her eyes are wide and they’re pinned on me. I avert my gaze and turn away, trying to push through the people blocking the sidewalk. Once I break through, a hand lands on my shoulder. The girl places herself in front of me. “He couldn’t move or feel anything,” she says accusingly. “Then you touched him.”
I don’t meet her eyes when I say, “I’m glad he’s okay.” I try to move around her.
She steps in my path. “You made him okay.”
I mumble something incoherent as I push past her and continue down the street. I speed up when I hear heels clicking rapidly behind me.
“Please stop,” she calls to me. “I know what you did. I know about people like you. I’ve been looking for you.”
I halt abruptly as the back of my neck prickles. “Excuse me?” I ask rudely, knowing I’m being stupid, that I should just keep moving.
She gets in front of me again. “It’s my father. He’s sick and no doctors can do anything for him, but maybe you can.”
My mind starts to flip through the possibilities. Is this a trick? Did Grant send her? Does she know who my father was? I’m about to put as much distance between us as I can, when she places her hand on my arm. My eyes flick up to her face. Her expression is pleading and desperate, but I don’t miss the sheen of hope in her eyes.
“He has amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Do you know what that is?” she asks, seeming to sense my indecision as her fingers grip me tighter.
I shake my head, and I can’t make myself move. The anguish in her voice is holding me still.
“It’s Lou Gehrig’s disease. He was diagnosed a year ago.” Her lips press together tightly, like she’s trying not to break down. Then she sucks in a breath and staves off her emotion. “I can see that you’re suspicious. I understand.” She releases my arm and reaches into her bag to pull out a business card. Then she roots around for a pen. With both in hand, she presses the card against the building behind me and writes something on the back of it. Instead of handing it to me, she holds it close as she steps toward me again.
“I’ve met someone like you before,” she says. “At the hospital where I work, there was a volunteer who used to spend her time in the children’s cancer ward. Those children adored her. I don’t think she had any family of her own. But she would sit there and play games with them and read them stories. Then she would tell them good-bye, and you’d find her crying in the lobby, heartbroken over those sick kids. One morning, she spent her usual time with them and after she left, they started telling us she’d cured them. As you can imagine, we were all upset, wondering what she could have said to make them think that. We didn’t know how to tell them it wasn’t true. But as the doctors made their rounds that afternoon, they knew something had changed with the children. Little by little, tests were run and no signs of cancer were found in any of them. The doctors tried to explain it using some far-fetched medical logic none of us believed. Because we knew it was her. We watched for that woman every day after that. But she never came back again.”
I hug myself as chills travel through me. If she was a healer, I can imagine all too well how that woman must have felt sitting there among those sick children.
“Please. My father is dying. He’s only fifty-five years old. I promise you, he’s a good man. He used to be a police officer.” She holds her hand out to me. “This is my card so you can verify who I am. I wrote my brother’s information on the other side. He’s a cop, too. You can check him out. We’re good people. My father doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him. He doesn’t deserve to suffer this way.”
I glance down at the hand holding the business card. She’s shaking, and I can just make out the words Registered Nurse on it. When I look up, her eyes are filling with tears. I take the card from her and she smiles tightly. “Please don’t walk away without telling me you’ll think about it.”
Slipping the card into my pocket, my heart is hammering, and I feel sure she can hear it. “I will,” I tell her. Then I turn and walk away quickly, not knowing if I lied to her or not.
As I make my way to the subway, my heart won’t slow down and I feel breathless. I dash into a shoe store, quickly heading toward the back where I sit down and try to calm myself, hoping the girl didn’t follow me, hoping I haven’t done something foolish. As I’m sitting there, the story of that volunteer haunts me. I can so easily picture her going back to that hospital day after day, struggling with what she knew she could do, but wasn’t sure if she should. I wonder if she was on her own like me, or if there are groups of healers here in the city.
When a salesperson approaches me, asking if I need help, I shake my head and walk back to the front. After waiting a few more moments and not seeing any sign of her, I rejoin the moving mass of people on the sidewalk.
I need to talk to Lucas, but finding time to be together isn’t easy these days. I have to work tonight and tomorrow night. Lucas doesn’t get back from class until after I’m already gone. Sometimes he stops into work to see me, but other times he’s racing to and from his internship at the paper. I didn’t know freshmen could have internships. But now that my life is no longer a catastrophe that takes up all his time, his overachieving ways are evident.
Back in Fort Upton, I knew he must have worked his ass off to get into Columbia early, but I never saw him crack a book. I see it now, though. He’s driven and ambitious, and I’m proud of him. I just wish we had more time together. I would never tell him that, though. This is his time to get back on track, and I’m completely on board with it. No clingy girlfriend here. Not me. But I really do want to talk to him now.
I run through his schedule in my head, and I think I can get to campus in time to catch him before he leaves for the newspaper. With that thought, I turn and head in a different d
irection. Forty minutes later, I’m dialing him as I walk through the doors of Lerner Hall, the huge glass-and-concrete student center where we meet for lunch sometimes.
“Hey,” he answers, a smile in his voice.
“I’m here on campus. Have you got a minute to meet me?”
He’s quiet.
“Lucas?”
“Is everything okay?” he asks cautiously.
Crap. He’s worried. “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to see you.”
“Yeah?” The smile is back.
“I’m sitting in the first-floor café. Right by the door.” I hear static as he starts moving.
“Be there in five,” he says.
It’s crowded in here, and the vibe is different from UCLA. The clothes are darker and the smiles are fewer. Lucas felt like a fish out of water in Los Angeles, and now it’s my turn. Glancing down at my light blue sweater, which matches my necklace perfectly, I’m like a beacon of color among the grays and blacks.
“This is a nice surprise.”
His voice breaks into my thoughts. Then it happens, like it does every time. The Lucas effect. My body temperature goes up, my tummy flutters, and my skin tingles with awareness.
I grin like an idiot, and he leans down to kiss me before sliding into the seat across from mine. And I don’t miss the attention he’s getting from the girls in the room. He stands out in a crowd, even one as dense and jaded as this. It’s not only his good looks that get him noticed, it’s his charisma. You can feel it. People are both attracted to him and intimidated by him. Just like in high school.
“How’s your day going?” I ask.
“It was good before. But it’s better now.” His eyes narrow on me. “There’s something different about you.”
I blink, confused. Nothing’s different as far as I know.
“It’s a good different, like you’re more rested or something.” He lays his hand palm side up on the table. As soon as I place mine within his, it’s enveloped in his firm grip. He turns our hands, and his thumb starts to rub circles along the inside of my wrist as his eyes hold mine. My desire for him is strong and immediate, and he’s looking so smug right now I can’t decide if I want to smack him or kiss him.
