“Henry?”
“I kissed her.” He smiled.
“Justine?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She kissed me back.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Dr. Saville asked.
Henry looked at her, his smile fading away, and then his head dropped down to his chest and he hid behind his hair again.
“I don’t want to die,” he said.
She looked up at him, her breath catching on a cough. “Excuse me?”
“I had a dream.”
“What happened?”
“I couldn’t find her. Elizabeth, she was gone and I couldn’t find her.” He wiped his eyes then rubbed his nose on his sleeve. “Then, I remembered the last dream, where I killed her and I realized I’d never see her again. She’s dead.”
“You’re not Victor.” Dr. Saville crossed the room and knelt down next to him.
“She’s never coming back. In my dream, I had nothing more to live for.”
“Henry?”
“I killed my daughter.”
“Just a dream,” she said.
“I killed her mother.”
“Henry, look at me.” Dr. Saville took his hands in hers, her fingers ice cold. “Henry.”
“I don’t want to die. I kept saying that but no one would listen.”
“Who wouldn’t listen?”
“Elizabeth. She couldn’t hear me. No one heard me.” He pulled away from her, rubbing his fists into his eyes. A single drop of blood snaked down from his nose, leaving a red trail around his lips. Dr. Saville grabbed a tissue off the desk and handed it to him. “No one ever hears me.”
“It’s all right, Henry.”
“I killed myself,” he said.
“In your dream?”
“After killing Elizabeth.” He shuddered and closed his eyes. He took a single breath and held it long past a count of ten.
“Breathe, Henry.”
He gasped, sucking in air. Stars danced in the corners of his vision as he hyperventilated and collapsed back in the chair.
“Deep breaths, Henry.”
“I don’t want to die.” He tilted his head to the side, looking up at her with a smile highlighted in blood. “I miss Elizabeth.”
“Just a dream, Henry,” she said.
“Justine is helping me remember.”
“You said you didn’t want to.”
“Would it change anything?”
“You tell me.”
He looked at her and then shook his head. “I remember dying.”
“That was a dream.”
“I guess I don’t want to remember, but I’m afraid that someday I’m going to.”
“That’s a healthy step,” she said.
He brushed his hair back off his face. A trail of tears ran down his cheeks, mixing with the blood.
“What if I don’t like me?” he asked.
“What if you do?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Did you expect one?”
“What happens next?” he asked as the alarm beeped.
“We find out where the path leads.”
nineteen
The salt of the Atlantic lingered on the hot early morning breeze when Henry opened the door. As he walked up the street, he looked over his shoulder toward Justine’s house and slowed his pace when her door opened. He stopped completely when she appeared.
In a white sundress with a yellow belt, Justine flowed down the street, moving from one patch of shade to another. Her hair caught the wind, swirling around her like a cloak, hiding everything but her smile. When she stopped in front of him, she brought the shade with her.
“You,” he said before turning around to look for the school bus.
“Yes?” she said.
“Morning.”
“You too.” She walked up beside him, facing the oncoming bus. “Did you know that high schools in England are called secondary schools? Didn’t help much, though, to be honest.”
“Help?” he said as they found their seat and sat down.
“Well,” she said, twisting around to face him, her leg caught up beneath her. “He doesn’t have a British accent, right?”
“Who?”
“Your father. I was bored. You were asleep, remember?”
He shook his head, then smiled. “Start over again.”
“Your dad, not British, not in secondary school in England. I checked a few Oxford-related school listings, didn’t find many William Franks in their class annuals, very helpful, no pictures though. But, since the years didn’t really work, I gave up. With me now?”
“Yes,” he said. “I think.”
“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“I know.”
“No, it’s worse,” Justine said. “It’s like looking for one particular needle named William among all the needles in all the haystacks. Have you figured out what you’re going to do if we find out where he went to school?”
Henry shook his head, a half-frown on his face.
“You still could ask him.”
“He’s never even home anymore. No one to ask.”
“Where is he?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Work?” He shrugged. “I don’t think he sleeps much.”
“You all right?”
He looked at her. A loose curl caught the wind from the open windows, warm honey eyes welcoming him along with her smile. “I think so.”
“Ever look for those pictures again?”
“Everywhere but in his bedroom.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“It’s always locked, even when he’s not home. So I don’t even bother anymore.”
“Locked?”
Henry shrugged.
The metallic shriek of the brakes as they turned into the high school carried through the bus. With the motion, Justine slid against his shoulder.
“Any plans this weekend?” he asked.
She looked up at him, her hair falling between them. “Any time in particular? Like, say, Friday night?”
“Friday night would be good,” he said with a smile.
“As long as the hurricane turns north, no plans at all.”
“Didn’t they tell us in school that they always turn?”
“Pretty much. It’s the elbow effect,” she said, bending her arm to show him. “Hurricanes tend to prefer Florida or South Carolina. Georgia’s protected.”
“Would you want to see a movie or something?”
“Like a date?” She smiled, running her fingers through her hair to tie it up in a ponytail.
“Like a date.”
“Yes,” she said. “Although of course it’ll have to be approved by my parents. But for the record, my answer is yes.”
They were almost inside the school, walking next to each other, when she reached for his hand.
twenty
After school, Justine left Henry at the metal gate that never closed and ran into her house where her mother had watched them walk from the bus stop.
Henry went inside and hadn’t gone more than halfway up the stairs when there was a knock at the door.
“Mom said ‘maybe’ for Friday, which is better than ‘no,’ right?” Justine asked as he opened the door for her. “Looks like movie dates don’t have to wait til senior year after all. But still, we’d have to have company—that all right? Unless we have to evacuate for Erika.”
“Company?”
“Well, the technical term would be ‘chaperone.’” She smiled.
“That’s all right,” he said with a matching smile.
The photographs from the scrapbook were laid out on the bed in as close to chronological order as Henry could make them. The picture with the half-seen T-shirt worn by his father leaned against the monitor on the desk, next to a pushpin sticking out of the wood. Justine sat in the chair as Henry moved some photos over to sit down. She picked up the picture, staring at the shirt.
&n
bsp; “Not Stanford, not Oxford.”
“I’ve Googled everything I can think of,” he said, running fingers through his hair as he leaned back against the wall. “Know how many states have cities with ‘ford’ in them? And most of them have high schools. Now add all the other words ending with ‘ORD’ that you came up with.”
“Giving up?”
“Still not sure why I’m even looking,” he said, then pushed the pictures to the ground. “So I learn where he went to college. Doesn’t help me remember my own life. Just his.”
Justine wheeled the chair over, bumping up against the bed, and rested her hands on his shoulders, pulling him toward her. “You shouldn’t give up, Henry.”
“Why not?”
“Well, first off, researching this with me has been fun, right?”
He ran his thumbs over her fingers then rested his forehead against hers. “Right,” he said. “And second?”
“Well,” she said, leaning back to look at him. “I’ll have to get back to you on that. Still, it’s fun even if we’re looking for something we’ll never find and, really, don’t even have to. Besides, it’ll give us something to talk about on our date.”
“You always have something to talk about, Justine.”
She blew him a kiss and pushed off, rolling back across the floor. On the desk, the pushpin poked her arm. “Ow,” she said. “Why is this even here?”
Henry stood up next to her and pulled the pin out of the wood. He rolled it between his fingers before resting the pointed tip against his left palm, eyes locked on Justine as he pushed it in.
A small red dot of blood welled around the metal shaft, and he smiled.
Her mouth shot open as she reached for him. “Henry!” she said, but he backed away from her, his hair falling in front of his eyes as he pulled the pin out.
“A few months ago, only this finger.” He pointed his discolored index finger at her. “Didn’t feel anything, but the numbness has been spreading recently.”
“Spreading?” she asked.
He poked the pin into his forearm, almost up to his elbow, then again, higher, leaving a trail of red dots up his arm. An inch below his biceps, he stopped.
“That one hurt,” he said with a small frown, pulling it out. “Last week it was below my elbow.”
“Why?” she asked.
He shrugged, then stuck the pushpin back in the wall. He slid the pillbox out from behind the monitor and flipped the lids, one at a time, until the entire box was open. “Lots of pills, since the accident. My dad keeps trying different combinations, different dosages. Some give me nightmares. Or make my nose bleed. I’m not sure if the numbness is a side effect or a symptom. Can’t really Google me.”
“I know,” she said.
“You know?”
She handed him some tissues from her purse and helped him wipe the spots of blood off of his skin. When he was done, she traced his scar with her finger. “I Googled you. Didn’t find anything. Thought there might be something about the accident, but I didn’t even know where to look.”
“I’m ungoogleable.”
“Is that a word now?” She smiled.
“Absolutely.”
“Really? What happens if I Google ‘ungoogleable’?” She typed as she spoke. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at almost 8,000 hits, should I?”
He shook his head. “Not even a little.”
“See, that’s why we’re looking for your father’s school.”
“Why?”
“Maybe that will help us Google you,” she said. “That’s reason number two.”
“Is that the best you could come up with?” he asked.
“It’s short notice; I’m sure I’ll come up with something better eventually.” She laughed. “I always do, don’t I?”
“Usually,” he said, trying not to laugh along with her.
She bent over the pillbox, studying the medicine piled in each compartment. “Nightmares?” she asked.
“About my daughter.”
“Elizabeth?”
Henry closed the pillbox and pushed it to the side. The small piece of paper caught on the corner and he spread it open.
Justine picked it up and read off the names. “Victor. Elizabeth. Christine. Frank. ORD. CME-U, I remember that one. That wasn’t much help to Google either. Is this your research list?”
“What there is of it.”
“Who’s Victor?”
“Elizabeth’s father.”
“Ask her for last names,” Justine said, handing the piece of paper back to him.
“Who?” Henry folded it up and put it under the pills again.
“Elizabeth,” she said. “In your dream, ask her.”
“I’m not sure … ” Henry said, and then fell silent. “They’re not that type of dream, I guess. Does that make sense?”
“They’re your dreams, Henry,” she said. “Can’t hurt to try.”
“They’re not.”
“Not what?”
“My dreams,” he said. “Though I once asked her my name. That’s how I learned about Victor.”
She looked up at him and then reached out for his hand, running her fingers up to where the pin had left its mark on his skin. “Ask her for me?”
He nodded.
“And no more pushpins.”
Henry pulled them out of the wall, one by one, and lined them up on the desk. Their metal tips were stained as they bumped against each other. When he’d pulled them all down, he rolled them into her hands and watched as she dumped them in the trash with the wadded-up tissues.
“Better?” he asked.
She smiled. “Have you told your father?”
“About?” he asked.
“The numbness?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I tried a couple of times, but no.”
Justine clasped his hand again, pulling him toward her. “Can I ask for another favor?”
He nodded.
“Tell him?”
Henry smiled but didn’t answer.
“Promise?”
“Yes,” he said. “Anything else?”
The sun peeked out from a cloud and for a moment the room lightened. She tilted her head to the side, her tongue resting on her lower lip. “You could kiss me again.”
The clouds closed back up and a sudden breeze brushed the branches against the window. Beneath the scrape of leaves and wood on the glass, the wind hissed and, if he listened hard enough, it seemed to moan, rattling the shutters.
Henry ran his fingers over her cheek, tracing the curve of her skin from where her earlobe met her jaw, down her neck, and back to the soft skin hidden beneath her hair. His thumb rested behind her ear and he could feel her breath against his lips.
“God,” she said, soft and warm against his skin, “I hope you can feel this.” She pulled him just that much closer, her arms clutched around his shoulders, and kissed him.
The wind shook the door, almost as though it was testing the knob, trying to get inside.
NOAA Alert: Erika Category Three; Eastern Seaboard Alerts:
Florida to South Carolina
Miami, FL—August 27, 2009: The National Hurricane Center has reported that Hurricane Erika has reached Category Three on the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale with maximum sustained winds of 125 mph as it continues on its path toward the eastern seaboard of the United States. Hurricane alerts have now been issued by the National Hurricane Center from Key West, Florida north to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
Hurricane force winds extend outward to thirty miles from the center and tropical storm force winds extend outward over 125 miles.
twenty one
When Henry turned the corner into the kitchen the next morning his father was already at the table, elbows on the edge and his face deep within the steam of his coffee.
“Dad?”
William waved the fingers of one hand but kept staring into his mug. “Morning,” he said, though the word was slurred and soft. W
ith an obvious effort, he shook his head and looked up. “Morning,” he said again.
Henry stood at the refrigerator door, looking back at his father. Thin hair streaked with gray lay flat against his skull, the ridges of the bone almost poking out of the dry pale skin. The circles under his eyes had grown and his smile was nothing more than a brief twitch of his lips.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Henry said, then turned back to the refrigerator.
“Just tired,” his father said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“How are you?”
Henry sat down with his breakfast, not looking at his father across the table. “Fine.”
“Fine? Is that what this is?”
“What?” Henry asked.
“Nothing,” his father said, drinking down his coffee and pushing the mug away. “Are you taking your meds?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you realize how important they are.”
“I know,” he said. “You keep telling me.”
“I’m serious, Henry.”
“I said, I know. I’m taking them.”
“And the ointment? Do you need more?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Your tests,” his father said. “They looked good, really.”
“Okay.”
“Anything new?”
Henry looked up. The wind hissed against the window and his father flinched. Henry shook his head. “No.”
His father stood and walked across the kitchen, then stopped in the doorway. “Henry?”
“Yeah?”
“Dr. Saville,” he said, and then looked away. “Is she helping?”
“Helping?”
“Do you remember anything?” he asked, the words forced through gritted teeth. “About before?”
Henry pushed his chair back without answering, dropped the bowl and spoon in the sink, then walked to the front door with his father following behind.
“Henry?”
“What is there to remember?” he asked, opening the door to let the bright morning sun shine in.
“Your mother,” William said. His hand reached out, lingering in the air close to Henry’s shoulder but not touching. “Anything.”
Henry turned around and his father lowered his arm. “No.”
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