“You’re part of this family,” he says through his teeth, shaking me. “I take you to church every Sunday. Where did I go wrong? Why am I cursed with a daughter like you?”
I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to—Tim’s grip is too tight. I see now that I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have taken his abuse, endured the hits, the insults, his revolting breath and sweaty palms.
No. Fight or flight. Once again I gravitate to fight. Is it really instinct that urges me to it? Has to be. Before I comprehend what’s happening, my nails are digging into Tim’s hand. He releases me, making yet another animal-like sound that’s part grunt, part growl. I tumble to the dirt, scraping my knees and the heels of my hands, jarring my injury. The pain nearly consumes me. No, I think again. Quickly I glance around for a weapon, something to deter him. The manure shovel—
Tim comes at me from behind. Then his fist is in my hair and he’s yanking me back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Fear materialize—he must’ve been coming for one of his visits. His white beauty makes the ugly scene almost surreal. His expression is thunderous and … torn.
“It won’t last long,” he says to me. “He’s going to pass out soon.”
I know this. It doesn’t lessen the physical pain any. I try to crawl away, but Tim kicks me and I slump against the wall. A groan slips past my lips. “Get up!” he orders. “Get up, whore!”
Fear stands close, so close that I can feel his cool presence gently flowing over me. I touch the edge of his coat. There’s blood on my fingers I didn’t know was there. Fear kneels down, his icy eyes lovely and anxious. “I can’t interfere,” he murmurs. “It’s one of the few rules my kind has. You know I would help if I could.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I manage to say.
“What’s that?” Tim sneers. “What did you say?” He reaches down, hauls me up by my shoulders. Yet another slam. I’m going to have some bruises tomorrow, I think insipidly. Fear touches my cheek before standing back.
Then, suddenly sagging, Tim stumbles into me so that I’m crushed between him and the wall. My hand shrieks and I struggle to escape, but Tim is dead weight. His breathing becomes more labored as he hangs onto me, as if he’s really the child. “Well?” he mumbles, the words muffled and watery now. “Answer me.” He sobs, a gurgled, ruined sound.
I stare straight ahead. Blood runs down my temple. “I have no answers that will satisfy you.”
My father laughs, more of a bark, really. “You’re so …
strange. I hear people in town calling you a freak. Yeah, a freak. That’s what you are … ” I still can’t move, and I scan the area around us again for anything to use as a weapon. Fear is still watching from a corner, his jaw clenched, and our eyes meet. Tim groans, distracting me. As I pull my attention away from Fear, another puff of Tim’s foul breath assaults my senses. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles tearfully, mindless. “You know I don’t mean it, don’t you? Sarah won’t even look at me, you know. She doesn’t love me. It’s my fault. I was the one who was supposed to be watching you that day … ”
I grow more alert at this. Is he talking about the accident?
But Tim is too far gone to answer any questions. He makes another sound deep in his throat and stumbles against me, trying to stand. I’m forced to shift to the side and lose my balance. Tim continues to sob as I fall …
… right into a pitchfork.
I let out another cry of pain, instinctively dropping and rolling to my back. The end of the tool clinks against the ground but doesn’t fall out. The tines should be easy to extract, yet the agony is already blazing through me, making it impossible to move. Should I pull it out? I think distantly, lying in some moldy hay. Tim is blubbering, moaning more apologies and woes. I pull my hand away from my side and gaze down at the red on my fingers. Too much, a voice in my head whispers. Black begins to cloud my vision. “Fear,” I say without thinking. I don’t know why.
And that’s all it takes. One strangled word, his name, his essence, and Fear is there, a gust of frozen fury. Yet the hands that cup my face are gentle, and it’s as if I’m made of something more breakable than glass. As if I’m infinitely precious. “This is going to hurt,” he warns. Before I can tell him that I already hurt the burning intensifies, and I arch my back and scream. Somehow the pitchfork is gone, and the holes in my middle close. One, two, three, four. When it’s done I pant, blinking through sweat. The wall of nothingness quivers, then becomes firm once again.
Fear smooths damp hair away from my face, still kneeling there. His palms are so cold. “Are you all right?” he asks.
“I didn’t mean to!” Tim chooses that moment to whimper. Forgetting me, Fear jerks upright, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. He vanishes in a burst of smoky tendrils, and Tim is across the room before I realize what’s happening. Fear bends over my father, his clothes a fluid, dark waterfall that obscure my view.
“You’re not going to touch her again,” he snarls, and blood sprays against the barn door.
“Fear, stop,” I say, struggling to my feet. Fear pounds Tim’s face, over and over, with all his unrestrained strength, and he doesn’t stop until I touch his back. My hand jars him out of his wild stupor, and he lets Tim slump to the ground.
“Fear,” I say again. He whips around, staring at me.
I stare back. There’s a tight sensation in my stomach. “You’re going to pay a price for helping me,” I tell him quietly. He already knows, of course, but I say it anyway. Although Emotions and Elements have no sovereign, any of the few rules they break are brought to balance by some unknown force. Maybe sooner, maybe later. Years ago, when I was learning more about the other plane and those that dwell there, Fear informed me that Disgust had killed a human once. Ten years later, Disgust’s lover was murdered. Coincidence? None of the beings from the other plane seem to think so.
What will be Fear’s consequence?
My hand—still unhealed—throbs as Fear makes a sound of contempt. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, imitating me. And then he smiles, a slow, gentle smile. I feel my nothingness twinge, harden itself. For a reason I can’t fathom, I think of that night in the loft when he held my hand. Offered to help me sleep. As Fear looks at me, that same expression of unexpected vulnerability crosses his beautiful face. My body aches all over, but I owe him this. Stepping forward, as if I’m moving through water, I slowly place my arms around him, rewarding him because I pay my dues.
He hesitates only an instant before embracing me in return. He buries his face in my hair, inhaling. Tim had done the same thing just moments ago, but it’s vastly different with Fear. There’s that sensation again, of something within me moving. His touch brings on images of panting terror and horrific experiences of people around the globe, but I ignore them all.
Fear heaves a sigh, arms tightening around me like he never wants to let go. “I have summons,” he murmurs reluctantly. “Better get back to work.” I don’t respond. Smiling again, Fear bends and brushes a soft kiss on my lips. Once, twice, three times, as if I’m a drug and he’s a drowning addict. He shudders in my hands, this timeless, powerful Emotion. Being with me really does change him, affect him.
“Don’t.” I pull away. An odd instinct doesn’t like the distance between us, but I chalk it up to my mind striving for safety. Right now, Fear represents safety. Yet Tim isn’t a threat anymore. He lies there with his back to a stall, a lump of regrets. Above him, the cows watch us curiously. “You’ll only get hurt.”
Fear winks at me, buoyed by the kisses. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
He disappears from my sight, and I turn to see how much damage he’s done to Tim. It’s not encouraging when my father coughs up blood, hay sticking to his pummeled face.
“Oh, dear,” I murmur, feeling my own injuries twinge, demanding attention.
“Since I’m already breaking the rules … ” I hear Fear’s voice say in my ear. A moment later my cuts and bruises close up; my skin becomes smooth and unbroken as if non
e of it ever happened. The burning pain in my hand is gone, too.
“More interfering,” I say.
Fear doesn’t bother with a reply, leaving me alone to figure out what to do with Tim Caldwell. After much debate, I decide that the best course of action is to do nothing at all. I milk the cows and shut up the barn for the night, leaving one door open.
Eleven
The next day, there are two abnormalities. Joshua isn’t at school, and when I get home, Sheriff Owen is in our kitchen. He’s taking statements from Mom and Tim, who refuses to go to the hospital.
The story is simple: Tim woke up alone in the barn last night without a memory of how he was beaten or who did it. Standing there with his calm expression, Sheriff Owen waits for my statement, pen poised over a notepad. I focus on his sandy-brown mustache and tell him in simple terms that I came home late yesterday, milked the cows, and went into the house for supper and homework. No, I didn’t see Tim in the barn. I went to bed around ten. No, I didn’t see anyone suspicious around the farm.
“One of the doors was wide open, and you found Tim lying a few feet away in his current condition, correct?” Owen asks my mom. Lips trembling, she nods.
The sheriff frowns, rereading his notes. “Well, the way I see it, Tim, you must’ve been working in the barn and someone came at you from behind. It explains your lack of memory. Are you sure there’s no one angry with you that would have a motive to do this?”
Holding an ice pack to his head, Tim just scowls and shakes his head.
Owen sighs, pocketing the notepad. “I’ll ask a few questions around town and see what I can find out.”
Mom shows him to his car. There’s the sound of an engine revving as Sheriff Owen leaves. Mom comes back inside and goes right to her dishes. Tim lumbers upstairs to lie down.
I wait until he’s gone—I can hear him moving around above us, a water faucet turning, the bedsprings squeaking—and then sit down at the kitchen table. Mom doesn’t notice me at first. She sighs in her isolation, shoulders slumped. I notice the grooves in her soap-covered hands, the natural downturn of her mouth. I shift, making the chair creak deliberately. Mom gasps, whirling around. When she sees it’s just me, her expression tightens.
“Elizabeth,” she mutters unhappily. The name sounds reluctant on her tongue. “Did you want something?”
“I’d like some answers,” I say, and it occurs to me how much I sound like Fear. “I won’t take long.”
She turns her back to me, resuming the dishes. “What is it?”
I fold my hands on the surface of the table and decide to be direct. “Will you tell me about the car accident?”
She stiffens, facing me again. Her gaze is sharp. “Who told you about that?”
I smile wryly, acting real for her benefit. “People talk, Mom.”
Her face twists up. She’s so many things. Disgusted, sorrowful, wistful, angry. Suddenly we’re not alone—my gaze flicks briefly to Resentment, where he stands among the others. He winks at me. “ … call me that,” Mom is saying. “A mother knows. You’re not my child. I may not know how or why, but you’re not her. My baby laughed. My baby threw tantrums when I wouldn’t let her wear a princess dress all day, every day.” Mom’s fists clench in front of her, and there’s a desperate darkness in her voice. “The doctor said you were catatonic because of the shock, but I knew. I knew.”
Guilt also appears beside Mom, rubbing her shoulders. Even though Guilt is a big, lumbering Emotion, there’s something slimy and sly about her. She fills the room with her aura.
“Hello, odd one,” she greets me. I don’t take my eyes off my mom.
“She’s too good to talk to the likes of you,” Resentment tells her, smirking. The other Emotions have gone.
Mom is silently crying. Despite the evidence and the impossibility of it, she wants to believe her real daughter is out there somewhere, waiting to be found. She wants to believe that her child isn’t the cold person beside her. I need to fix this. I have to fix this. “It’s not your fault,” I say to her as I ignore the two guests sharing the space in the kitchen. “Whatever you think happened. The accident—”
“The accident.” Mom sniffs. She shakes her head, wiping away some sweat on her forehead with the back of her arm. Is the incident with Tim what’s rattled her? Or is it this conversation, here, now? “That’s when it all started. You never found out about it because we never talked about it. For Tim it was a matter of pride. He didn’t want to think about our four-year-old daughter wandering all the way out to the road without our knowing and getting hit by a car.”
“How long was I in the hospital?” I ask next.
Trying to regain her composure, my mom starts on the dishes yet again. Resentment leaves but Guilt remains. “Just a day,” Mom replies. “The doctor said it was a miracle. You got away with just a few scrapes and bruises. They only kept you overnight for observation.” She laughs softly, her shoulders shaking. “Since the driver that hit you was the one to call 9-1-1, Tim and I got to the hospital later. As soon as I walked into your room and you turned … that was the moment I realized you’d changed. You looked at me like you didn’t even know me.”
I stand, moving to the counter to help her dry. She doesn’t object. “It really could just have been shock.”
Mom shakes her head so adamantly that some of her hair comes loose from her ponytail. She’s going to cling to her delusions. “No. No. I rocked my daughter to sleep every night, I sang her songs, I dressed her, I fed her, I played with her, I carried her inside of me for nine months. She knew me, and I knew her.” She scrubs a dish so hard that she slips a bit and dishwater splashes over the edge of the sink. I think, not for the first time, of how different we are, yet it’s her I look like the most. Both of us tall, slender, blond and blue-eyed.
“I should have done more,” Mom murmurs, pulling me back to the present. “Said more. I should have fought for my daughter, tooth and nail, looked for her until my last breath. But I stood here in this kitchen, doing dishes, pretending that everything was all right.”
I should have expected this; it’s the way of humanity, after all, to deny. To hope when there is none. I study the shine of a glass in my hand as I ask, “What do you think happened, then?”
Mom just shakes her head. Really, she has no idea what she believes.
People are so complex. They want to hear the truth, but they want you to lie to them. I choose silence rather than making another mistake with my mother. I dry each dish meticulously, concentrating on the plates and silverware and pans as if they’re the reason for my existence. I become aware that Mom has stopped washing and is watching my hands, her eyes wondering, worrying.
“You can ask me anything you want,” I tell her. She shudders, probably because I’ve guessed her thoughts. She doesn’t move away, though, or snap at me. I watch her toy with her wedding ring. It slips easily off her wet finger, and she puts it back on little by little.
“Who are you?” Mom asks finally, her voice a broken whisper. “What are you?”
My hand towel goes around and around on a plate. “I’m your daughter, no matter what you believe.” Around, around.
Following my example, Mom starts scrubbing again. “Just the way you’re so controlled … ” She purses her lips. “Even when you were little, you didn’t crack a smile.”
“I could try harder—”
“No.” Mom ducks her head and hair falls forward, hiding her haggard face. She grips the edges of the sink. Knuckles white. I can see her heart breaking all over again. Guilt is still there, answering her summons solemnly, her spindly fingers tight on Mom’s shoulder, and she’s joined by others again. Sorrow, Anger, Hope. As the seconds tick by the air begins to tremble with expectation. Tension and pressure builds in the room and I know something’s coming. Something that won’t be easy for her. Finally, her chin trembling, my mother plunges. “Do you know where my daughter is?”
I meet her sad, sad eyes. And in this moment I realize th
at she’ll always deny me, never accept me. I’ll never be her child. But I can’t release her. If I let her sink into these impossible despairs, there will be no place for me. So I tell her, in the same hard way Tim speaks, “I’m your daughter. And you owe it to me to believe that, no matter how much I’ve changed.”
Silence. The soap in the sink bubbles. After another minute she nods, pursing her lips. She turns away. And thus ends the first meaningful, sincere conversation I’ve ever had with my mother.
This time there’s no disorientation. I know, the moment I open my eyes and find myself in an unfamiliar room, that this is another dream. The walls are blue, the furniture all mismatching. There’s a narrow bed in one corner with messy sheets, all wrinkled and tossed. There’s a stereo on the dresser. But what makes this square place remarkable, individualistic, is the books. Dozens upon dozens of them are stacked up, covering every surface, every possible spot. Some are open, some are bookmarked, some look ancient, and others have yet to have their spines cracked for the first time. Titles and words fly at me: THE GREAT GATSBY. THE GRAPES OF WRATH. THE ASSASSINATION OF JOHN F. KENNEDY.
I’m standing in a corner, gazing at it all. Through the window to my left I see that it’s morning. The sun is just awakening and fingers of orange and pink stretch out over the world. There’s a distant roar, something mighty and older than time. My mind recognizes it after a moment. The ocean.
The realization hits me then: I’m in the house. The one that I see sometimes in my dreams. The one by the cliff side.
“ … almost time to eat,” a woman says from down the hall. And then the door opens and the boy enters. I remain where I am, expecting him to lift his gaze and see me. But he doesn’t.
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