I might as well be invisible. He just strides to the cluttered desk and rifles through some papers in a drawer. His mouth is puckered and his movements are graceful, thoughtless. He’s just showered; his hair is wet and he smells of sharp soap. He finds what he’s looking for—a notebook and a textbook along with it—
and he pulls them free of the pile, tucks them under his arm, and leaves again. Without hesitation, I follow.
We walk into a kitchen. The house is small; it only takes five steps. Everything is clean and orderly in contrast to the boy’s room. Though the furniture is worn and there’s only one very old TV as entertainment, someone has worked very hard to make this place a home. The rugs are colorful and there are pictures on the walls, framed images of a smiling family of three: the boy, the mysterious girl who always weeps in my dreams, and an older woman with crinkling eyes. Grief doesn’t exist. These pictures … these pictures are genuine. The Caldwell mark is nowhere to be seen—no shadows in their gazes, no tight smiles, no distance between shoulders.
I pull my attention away from the pictures and examine the room. A woman has her head half-inside a refrigerator. As the boy circles her and approaches the table I see that she’s sniffing milk. “You’re going to be late,” the boy says.
The woman sets the milk down in front of him, telling him, “I’ll be fine. Oh, and I did pick up an extra shift, so I’m going to be little late tonight. Make sure you tell your sister, okay?” Of course she’s his mother; the knowledge is there in the way she brushes his bangs back, the way she moves around the kitchen with such purpose. This is her purpose. He is her purpose. It must be so fulfilling, to have a design.
The boy pops the mouth of the milk carton and tilts it. The sound of the milk streaming into a glass is the only sound for a second. It’s strange for me, the silence. There are no ticking clocks or thudding boots coming into the house.
“Where is she?” the boy asks his mom after a moment. I lift my head at this—it’s the same thing he asked me in that clearing. Before the churning skies and bloodthirsty swarms.
This time he receives an answer. The dark-haired woman sighs. “She went out to the woods again. She didn’t hear me when I tried to call her back.”
He watches her. “Don’t worry. She’ll be back. She always comes back.”
It doesn’t soothe her, but she hides her expression. When she turns back to her son, she raises her brows. “Are you sure you want her to? You wouldn’t have to share that damn bathroom anymore.”
He smiles faintly, holding his fork tight. She smiles too, a sad curve of the lips. They’re entwined together through loyalty, not obligation. This is what family is supposed to be.
The boy bends his head again, back to his food, and hair falls into his eyes. Just like Joshua. I lift my hand to push it out of his—
Suddenly the scene is rushing away. Cold air and streaks of black and blue shoot by. A dizzying sensation makes my head swim, and I lower to my knees to maintain balance.
Everything goes still again. It’s not gradual. One moment I’m on a speeding, burning train, and the next I’m at a stop, and the whistle announcing my arrival is an abrupt silence. I lift my head … and see.
He lies there. He’s just a foot away, so close I could reach out and touch him. Where any other person would recoil or cover her mouth in horror, I just stay right there on my hands and knees, gazing down at him. My wall of nothingness twitches a little.
This time the girl is nowhere to be seen. There’s no cradling, no screaming. Just the absoluteness of death. The moon gazes down at us with its white face. It’s chilly. Dew coats the grass and soaks through my dress. I hardly notice. Blood seeps into the earth. I study the scene for a long, long time. No matter what other theories I’ve had up until this point, I now know one thing for certain: this was no accident.
The isolation wraps itself around me. Briefly I wonder why there are no crickets. I continue to sit there by the body, trapped in this place. For some reason, I seem unable to tear away from the sight.
“You did this,” his voice whispers in my ear. The boy himself doesn’t open his eyes or move. But it’s true. I feel it to the marrow in my bones. Because of me, somehow, someway, all of this is ended. No more breakfasts, no more laughter, no more studying. Never again will that beautiful boy turn the page of a book or squint at a sentence. Never again will he share a joke with his mother or wait for his sister to return.
I should care. This dream, this memory, whatever the correct term for it is, clearly is meant to serve a purpose of its own. To help me remember? To cause an Emotion, any Emotion? Or maybe the intent is something far more basic. Maybe this is just a dream, a random story tucked away in the back of my mind like all those paintings.
Do you really believe that? an inner voice asks me.
It would be easier if I did. It would be beneficial. The truth is looking less and less appealing as this winding path brings me deeper into dark wilderness.
But I might be more human than Fear or I thought, because I can’t sink into oblivion. This boy means something to me. He’s part of my past. And he’s not just some random story.
He’s my story.
Twelve
Friday morning Joshua is back in class. He looks normal but tired. Worry touches his shoulder. Sophia’s sister and my penchant for bruises aren’t the only subjects Edson High has to talk about. There’s been some speculation about the Hayes farm, about how their crops have been failing the past few years. Is that why he missed school yesterday? To help his dad?
When the bell rings, I approach Joshua slowly, treating him like I would a hurting animal. He looks up, sees me. Kids shuffle past us—Sophia slams by, and I stumble a bit—but Joshua and I stay where we are, two unmoving stones in a wild tide. His eyes narrow at Sophia as she passes and she falters, her cheeks heating. She regains her composure, however, and whisks through the door as if she doesn’t care what he thinks of her.
“How are you?” Joshua asks, shifting his gaze to me. All that hair hangs in his eyes.
He really is odd; his weariness and anxiety are evident, and he’s asking about me. “I’m fine,” I answer. “What are you doing after school?”
Joshua blinks, taken aback. “Uh … nothing.”
I nod, brisk, because I believe it’s what he needs: someone to take control, someone to offer him a distraction. Why are you doing this? that voice in the back of my head asks. Courage said I would need him, logic points out.
What is your excuse for indulging Fear? it asks next.
I ignore this.
“Come over to my house,” I say. “There’s something I need help with.”
He’s curious. “What?”
“You’ll see.” I hug my books against my chest and pivot on my heel, walking to the door.
He says my name, softly, uncertainly. “Elizabeth?” I turn. Standing up, Joshua clears his throat. He blushes a little and tries to cover it up by sounding confident, casual. “Why would you want to hang out with me?”
Teasing him, keeping up the pretense, I raise a brow. “It’s just a project, Joshua.”
He straightens, grinning. “Yeah, but you’re a girl, and you’re you.”
I study him some more, taking in the plaid shirt that hugs his thin torso, the stained jeans, the old work boots that I suspect belong to his father; they’re too big. “Because I think I should get to know you,” I answer honestly. You will need that boy in the end.
“Why?” he asks again.
We’re going to be late, and I still need to take a trip to my locker. I turn my back to his questions. “Meet me on the front steps after the last bell. You can follow me home.”
Before he has a chance to open his mouth and ask anything more, I vanish through the door, throwing myself into the sea of kids. My senses are consumed by their chatter, the sound of sneakers on the floor, laughter. These people are always in motion, always full of a life I lack, no matter how much I pretend.
Ther
e’s little danger in bringing Joshua home; Tim is asleep upstairs, under the heavy spell of alcohol and pain killers. He hasn’t moved for two days.
The door to Joshua’s beat-up car squeals loudly as he opens it and gets out. He shuts it, looking around. The farm isn’t much different from his, but the boy looks at everything like he’s never seen a farm before. I try to see through his eyes, and appraise the chipping white paint on the house, the way the barn roof sags, the rusty tractor abandoned on the lawn.
“So this is where you live,” Joshua says, so quietly he probably doesn’t mean for me to hear.
I shoulder my bag, inclining my head. “Come on. My room is upstairs.”
Joshua follows me inside. The screen door slamming announces my arrival to Mom. She doesn’t look up from her position behind the counter, where she’s breaking up some broccoli in a bowl. It isn’t until she hears the heavier thumps of Joshua’s shoes in the entry that her head snaps around. “Oh.” With wide eyes, she sizes Joshua up. She recognizes him; Edson is tiny and it would be impossible not to. Mom wipes her hands on a towel, turning. She glances at me once, and I know she’s surprised I’ve finally brought someone home. “You’ve grown,” she says to Joshua after a moment, taking a couple steps to extend her hand.
He shakes it quickly, shifting from foot to foot. “That’s right; you brought some food over once, after … ”
Displaying a sensitivity I wasn’t aware my mother had, she smiles at him, smoothly directing her next words elsewhere. “I suppose you and Elizabeth are going to work on your project.” She chews some skin from her lip, a nervous habit.
There’s no way to miss how she doesn’t address me, avoids it, really. I hadn’t mentioned working on the English project tonight, but Joshua isn’t stupid. He knows something is off. “Yeah, we are,” he tells Mom. He brushes some of that long hair out of his eyes. “Thanks for letting us do it here.”
Mom flaps a hand dismissively, smiling at him some more. She’s probably thinking about how nice it is to finally have someone normal around, someone who isn’t her family. “Are you hungry?” she asks. “I could—”
“We don’t have much time,” I interject, giving her a warning look. There’s a possibility Tim could wake up soon. She understands and shuts her mouth. “Thanks, though. We’ll be upstairs if you need us.”
Mom nods, returning her attention to the broccoli. I take my shoes off, indicating that Joshua should do the same. He does so, trying to hide how dirty his socks are. I pretend not to notice and lead him upstairs.
It is an odd sensation, having a warm presence at my back.
I shut my bedroom door behind us. Joshua looks around curiously, eagerly, as if the room will tell him everything about me, add more pieces to the puzzle. He eyes the blank emptiness, the scant furniture, with interest. He says nothing. Just studies it all.
“It’s white,” I state, making a motion to the paint cans in the corner. While Tim was sleeping last night I’d gone and fetched them from my truck. “We’re going to change it.”
He takes this in with a bemused expression. “You want me to help you paint? That’s your project?”
“What did you think it was?” I’ve already moved the furniture to the center of the room, so all there is left to do is spread the tarps out on the floor to keep the wood from getting splattered.
Joshua doesn’t answer.“So … ” He begins to roll up his sleeves. “What do you want to do here? I see a lot of … green.” He eyes the paint cans, his mouth curving with amusement. “Guess we’re going for a forest.”
I raise my brows at him. “Exactly. A mural, of sorts.”
Nodding a second time, Joshua faces the wall. His lips twist. Seconds tick by and I know he’s imagining the possibilities as he squints at all the white. Twist, squint, twist, squint. Then he turns back to me. “I told you, I’m not very creative,” he sighs. “So you’re just going to have to tell me what to do. You don’t have a problem with that, right?” He actually attempts a wink. When I smile, he flushes, a bright red that crawls up his neck and face.
To ease his discomfort, I begin spreading out the tarp. He jumps in to help, the material crackling between us. “Let’s start on this wall first,” I direct, and once we have the tarp laid out, I tape it down to the floor. I stand back, thinking. “I’ll outline the trees with pencil, and I’ll let you do whatever you want with them.”
“What?” Joshua scoffs. “Are you serious? You really want to endanger your mural like that?”
His laughter is loud, boisterous, and I listen carefully for movement in the hallway, alert to any stirring in Tim’s room. He snores on in his drunken stupor. Relaxing a little, I turn my attention back to Joshua. “I trust you,” I say with an easy shrug. The simple words startle him; his eyes widen. For a moment he doesn’t seem to know what to say. Before he can read more into it, though, I slap a paintbrush into his hand. I step away quickly. “We don’t have much time today,” I repeat. “I’ll get started.”
Joshua just watches me. After another moment, he slowly turns away. As I draw the outlines, instinct is pushing at me again, insistent, loud, demanding. I already have one Sophia making things more complicated. I already have one Maggie to pretend for. I already have one mother who sees how I don’t belong. Don’t encourage the boy, it says. Don’t be friends with him. End this before it’s too late.
And I consider this. But then there is Courage, his dark loveliness before me, solemn and chilling in his truth: You will need that boy in the end.
I draw.
“It’s going to storm,” Joshua murmurs. He stands by my window, staring out at the fields. Gray skies and strong winds frown and swirl on the other side of the glass. The paintbrush drips in Joshua’s hand, green paint staining the floor, but I don’t mention it.
“You should leave soon,” I say, stepping away from the wall to eye it. I’ve drawn trees on two of the walls, a small stone house and the edge of a cliff on a third, and on the fourth …
“What’s that?” Joshua appears beside me, frowning at the scene before us. When I don’t answer, he steps carefully around my bed. The pencil markings hold all his attention. “It’s sad. Beautiful, but I don’t think I’d want to fall asleep every night with that looking over me.”
I reach out to touch the boy at the same time Joshua does. Our hands brush, and he jumps. Neither of us move. I observe the girl’s silent scream for the millionth time.
“Where did you come up with this?” Joshua asks, his voice husky. I don’t answer, preoccupied with the curve of the girl’s cheek, the way her fingers curl over the boy’s shoulder.
Where is she?
You killed me.
Joshua fidgets—his thumb taps his thigh and his foot makes a beat on the floor—proving my theory that he can’t stand still for even a moment. “I didn’t know you could draw so well,” he adds. Again I say nothing. “Elizabeth?” He sounds worried now; I’ve been silent too long.
“I’m not that good. And I made this up,” I reply. I toss my pencil on the bed, glancing out the window, where rain has begun to patter against the pane. “Thank you for helping me. I’ll walk you out to your car.”
He follows me mutely. So strange. I’m used to demanding questions, impossible expectations. I’ve never known anyone like him. But when we’re going down the stairs, his silence suddenly makes sense. Sorrow stands in the shadows, waiting for Joshua. The boy shudders when Sorrow reaches out, as if he can sense the Emotion’s presence. My mural must have spurred it on—I can guess what sprang to Joshua’s mind, to make Sorrow pay a visit.
Mom isn’t in the kitchen on our way out the door. The house is holding its breath. I don’t think Joshua is aware of much else besides his soundless pain. The screen door begins to close, but Joshua turns back quickly, catching it before it slams. Sorrow looks at me while Joshua is distracted, those constant tears streaking down his white, white cheek. His black hair thrashes in the wind and his essence clashes against me. I see death
, sobs, emptiness.
“Are you all right?” Joshua’s staring at me. I keep walking, gravel crunching beneath my feet. Pressure pounds on all sides; the storm is approaching fast.
When we reach Joshua’s car, I ask him, “What made you think of your mother?” A leaf blows and tangles in my ponytail. I pull it out and hold it by its stem.
Joshua toys with his keys, flipping them back and forth, pursing his lips. They jangle and the silver flashes. “How did you know I was thinking about her?”
I shrug. “A guess.”
He scowls. Roughly, he shoves those bangs out of the way to glare at me. Sorrow remains close by, but Anger joins us. He says nothing, just grasps Joshua’s shoulder and pointedly ignores me. “You know what I realized?” Joshua snaps. “You lie a lot, Elizabeth. I’m not stupid.”
“What do you think I’m lying about?”
He makes an abrupt gesture toward the house, my room. “You didn’t make that drawing up. No one can make up that kind of pain. It was real, even if I don’t know what it’s all about.”
Clouds gather above us, and thunder rumbles, warning us that it’s coming. There’s just a light sprinkle now, but I know it’ll get worse. The leaf is delicate in my fingers. Joshua doesn’t even notice the drizzle. He keeps glaring at me, waiting for me to speak.
Finally I just shrug again, as hollow inside as ever. “You want the truth? Fine. I don’t know why I drew that. I dream about it. But I’m not like you; I’m not sad, or suffering. I don’t feel anything.”
His eyes become dark shades of disappointment; he thinks I’m still lying. It’s the way humanity is; give them what they want, and it turns out it’s not what they wanted after all.
“Whoever that person is,” Joshua says, his voice thick, “you care about him. I saw it on your face when you touched him. I watch you in class sometimes,” he adds suddenly. My mind scrambles to adapt to the subject change. “I’ve never seen anyone so sad. It’s why I was interested, at first. I thought you were the only person that could understand. But then I saw something more.” The sky opens up and the rain comes down without restraint. Joshua reaches down to unlock the car door, swiping at his nose with his sleeve. He avoids looking at me now and the rain plasters his hair to his head.
Some Quiet Place Page 9
