The clink of silverware echoed in the dining room.
“What?” the little girl asked, looking around the table at the silence.
Patrick swallowed. “I-I didn’t realize you celebrated that,” he said, his voice a rough semblance of normalcy. His eyes went to Rose and Jonathan, who both shifted awkwardly.
“Lily wanted to,” Ashley explained quietly.
“You said it was a good idea!” Lily protested. Confusion clouded her face as she turned to the others. “What’s wrong?”
Patrick cleared his throat. “Nothing, Lilybud,” he said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Just took me by surprise, that’s all.”
Looking unconvinced, Lily hesitated. “Is it okay?”
He smiled. “Of course.”
Brow still furrowed, Lily went back to her salad.
Ashley risked a glance in her father’s direction. His eyes closed briefly, and then he drove any trace of expression from his face and returned to his dinner as though nothing had happened.
She took a bite of her food as the joy of the moment before slunk from the room. It didn’t matter what he tried to pretend. She knew he was thinking about Rebecca and everyone else lost that night. They all were.
Snow had been falling the night their worlds changed. She remembered it so clearly, if only through the lens of all that followed. But Patrick said, as the white flakes drifted through the lights of the grocery store parking lot, that she’d told him they were inside a snow globe. And at the memory of her words, he always smiled.
It was Christmas Eve and eight-year-old Ashley had gone with her father on a run for soda from the local store. The family had been holding a party. Uncles, aunts and cousins had all gathered to celebrate the holiday at her grandparents’ house, and no one had wanted to leave. But Ashley adored the snow, and so when Patrick finally volunteered to pick up more drinks, he said she’d jumped at the chance to go.
One little moment. She couldn’t remember it, but she’d wondered at it as the years went by.
The firemen said it might’ve been a gas main, or someone pulling a prank that went horribly wrong. In Patrick’s recollection, a fireball lit the night sky as he pulled away from the grocery store, and he’d known – just known – that it was his parents’ home. He’d driven back at top speed, and screeched to a halt in the middle of a nightmare.
In all the years since, it was the only time she’d seen her father cry.
Doctors told Patrick that the trauma must have damaged her somehow. The shock of such tremendous loss must have overwhelmed her, causing her to pass out and retreat inside her own mind for protection. And later, whenever she tried to push beyond the moment of waking in the car that night, to recall anything prior to the sight of the house in flames and her father’s tears, not a single memory remained. Not her mother’s laugh or her favorite toys, the color of her bedroom or the name of a single friend. Everything was gone as though it had never been.
For Ashley, life began with fire.
Half the block had been destroyed. Beyond her grandparents’ house, other homes were burning, and shivering people crowded the sidewalks while hoses rained water on the flames. Christmas lights still dangled from porches and windows farther down the street, sparkling in surreal relief against the orange sky.
And overhead, ash drifted down, mingling with the snow.
Of her grandparents’ home, almost nothing was left. The blast had ripped through the building, gutting it and leaving the houses across the backyard visible through the hole. Only two walls remained, one on either side, though they were bowed and burning and beginning to crumble before her eyes. Emergency crews crawled through the wreckage, their forms little more than shifting apparitions in the smoke.
Patrick held her, crushing her to him as the police kept him from coming closer to the house. As the bodies began to be pulled from the debris, he’d buried her face in his side, trying to spare her the sight.
It hadn’t mattered. She’d known whenever they brought someone out; his hands clenched tighter around her every time.
Rebecca was the last. Furthest from the blast, she must’ve seen the disaster coming and known she wouldn’t survive. But in her final moments, she’d done what she could, and thrown herself over her baby girl, who was only one month old that day.
The EMTs found Lily buried beneath her mother and sobbing, her little body unscathed by the destruction. They’d called her a miracle baby, and when they carried her out, even the fire crews paused in disbelief.
Patrick had choked as they brought her to him. With shaking hands, he’d released Ashley and taken Lily, his gaze running over the child as though he’d never seen anything like her in his life. He’d crouched then, cradling the baby in one arm and wrapping the other around Ashley as he cried.
Other people came as time slid by. Friends to console and care, though each struggled to know what to say. Every face was like an image blurred by water for Ashley, and she could never remember any of their names. After a while, Patrick left to attend to the police, and to answer questions he said no child should ever have to hear. With her fingers clutching those of a tall black man in a trench coat smelling of vanilla and cedar, she’d sat on a park bench around the corner and held Lily, who had long since fallen asleep.
They’d moved in the days that followed.
She suspected another planet would’ve felt closer than Montana, because although she couldn’t remember much of the city, she’d still instantly felt every ounce of her unfamiliarity with farms. But Jonathan and Rose met them at the driveway of their new home, and embraced them as though they were long-lost friends come to stay. Routines and chores soon followed and, though she’d resented them at the time, when she looked back now, she realized the couple had just been trying to give the grieving children every shred of normalcy they could spare.
Patrick tried to settle into farm life for the sake of his daughters, for whom he’d felt the need to move away from anyone who might ever endanger them again. Vandals could’ve been responsible for the tragedy as easily as a broken gas main. The ambiguity was more than he could stand, and only by leaving his girls in rural obscurity could he let himself believe they might be safe. The isolation wore on him, though, and jobs constantly called. Any given day could find him pacing the house, one hand grasping the phone and the other raking through his hair as he tried to figure out how to live in two places at once. Finally, with no choice but bankruptcy or insanity, he returned to work and left his girls on the farm with the promise he’d come back soon.
They’d seen him barely a dozen times since, and as she picked at her dinner, Ashley tried not to think of the many things he’d missed over the years, beyond simple traditions like celebrating their mother’s birthday. Lily’s first steps. The girl’s first words. Missing teeth and the identity of the tooth fairy. He’d missed so much of their lives, and sometimes, when she let herself, she could feel the hurt of that fact simmering deep down inside.
Dinner ended in silence and, with worried eyes, Lily left the table before anyone else. Regret clouded Patrick’s face as he watched her go, but wordlessly, he just helped the others take the dishes away.
“Chocolate?” he asked Ashley as they walked into the kitchen. “I thought you liked carrot cake best?”
She slid the plates into the soapy water of the sink and then glanced to him, hiding her pity. Beneath his thinly veiled attempt at seeming casual, she could see he was struggling. “I do, Dad. Chocolate is Lily’s favorite.”
Taking a breath, he nodded. One memory was accurate, at least.
“Just give it a few minutes, then go upstairs and play with her,” Ashley advised quietly. “She’ll be fine.”
He looked at her, and she could see the thoughts warring behind his dark brown eyes. Accepting guidance from his teenage daughter clashed with the idea of being her parent, but after a moment, he settled on giving her a small nod and then headed for the living room to wait.
She retur
ned to washing the dishes.
Rose came in and set the bowls by the sink. Wordlessly, the woman placed a hand on Ashley’s shoulder, squeezing briefly before returning to the dining room.
Ashley sighed.
A crash echoed up from the basement. Dropping a plate into the sink, she spun, heart pounding.
“What the hell–” Patrick said as he raced from the living room, his body tensed as though ready to grab the nearest heavy object within reach.
Jonathan strode around him and yanked open the basement door. “Damn cats,” he growled. Glancing back to Patrick, he held up a hand. “It’s fine.”
Muttering under his breath, the old man disappeared down the darkened stairway. Yowling was followed by a crash, and then another. Rose winced at every sound, and Ashley could see her imagining the objects breaking as the chase continued.
The basement went silent and then Jonathan emerged, scratches on his arms and a furious expression on his face. By the scruff of its neck, a flailing cat twisted in his fist.
At the sight of Rose, the cat renewed its struggles, catching its captor across the back of his arm with its claws. Jonathan yelped and released the animal, sending it plummeting to the floor. Paws scrambling on the hardwood, the cat propelled itself past Patrick and sped beneath a chair in the furthest corner of the living room.
Rose snatched a napkin from the table and rushed to Jonathan’s aid, covering his bleeding scratches. She glanced at Ashley.
“Got it,” Ashley said with a nod.
Patrick looked between them as she walked past.
“Thelma’s cats don’t like Rose or Jonathan much,” she told her father dryly.
One brow raised, he eyed the couple and then followed her into the living room.
In the shadows, the cat’s eyes flashed. Dark stripes like a tiger ran down its frantically heaving sides and, as she crouched in front of the chair, the creature hissed and batted at her.
She sank onto her heels to wait.
“This happen a lot?” Patrick asked. Watching her, he leaned on the hallway wall.
“All the time. Rose grows valerian and catnip for her teas. She stores the herbs in the basement and, well… ” she tossed him a grin before she returned her gaze to the cat.
Gradually, the animal seemed to realize none of the humans besides Ashley and Patrick were following it into the room. Though clearly still on edge, the cat lowered itself onto its haunches and began cleaning a paw with an almost theatrical display of calm.
Ashley scoffed. “Yeah, right,” she murmured, gingerly reaching her hand between the legs of the chair. “Here, kitty.” A look of mild disdain surfaced amid the creature’s residual nervousness, but after a few moment’s consideration, it condescended to allow her to pull it out.
Bundling the cat into her arms, she grinned at her father. “Be back in a few minutes.”
“Where are you going?”
“To bring the cat back to Thelma. It’s fine; she’s just down the road.”
For a moment, he seemed torn by the protective urge to go with her, and she smiled. “Really, Dad.” She jerked her head toward the stairs. “Go take care of Lily. She’ll be worried about all the noise down here.”
Still looking reluctant, he nodded. “Be careful.”
She smiled as she scooped up Jonathan’s heavy-duty flashlight from beside the coat rack. “I will,” she assured him, and then let the screen door swing shut behind her.
Darkness surrounded her as she left the island of light around the farmhouse. Stars carpeted the sky, taking full advantage of the new moon and the cloudless night. Crickets ceased their chirping as she passed, and tree frogs grew silent, only to start singing again once she was gone. The cat twisted at the sounds, teased by the idea of chasing all the tiny, invisible things moving in the grass. Shifting the animal in her arms and quietly threatening it with dire consequences if it scratched her, she continued toward the bungalow half a mile away.
A bare light bulb dangled from the rafters of the weathered porch, and moths danced around it madly. The splintered steps bowed beneath her feet as she climbed, and she winced, fully expecting that this time, one of them would finally give way. Swatting ineffectually at the bugs with the bulky flashlight, she ducked low and then rapped on the wooden screen door. A chorus of discordant meows greeted her, and the cat struggled to escape her grasp at the noise.
Moments passed and the meowing faded, but no one came to the door. Flinching away from a kamikaze moth diving toward her head, Ashley bit her lip indecisively. She could leave the cat on the porch, but odds were it would return immediately to the basement and she’d just have to bring it back again. The stupid animals never learned.
Grimacing, she raised her hand to knock again.
With a creak of rusty hinges, the door behind the screen inched open, revealing nothing but darkness beyond.
“Thelma?”
“Ooh,” came a voice from behind the narrow opening.
“Thelma, one of your cats got into our basement again,” she called, telling herself to be patient. Thelma kept things interesting, the farmhands said. She just hoped the old woman was lucid enough tonight to see the cat in front of her. Or the person, for that matter.
The crack widened and a frail hand emerged to push at the screen door. A pause followed, punctuated by renewed meows from within the house, and then Thelma slipped through the narrow space and stepped onto the porch as though emerging onto a stage. A cloud of gray hair surrounded her thin, wrinkled face and too-bright eyes darted between Ashley, the cat and the darkness. Her razor-thin lips parted, revealing yellowed teeth in what passed for a smile. “Ashley, Ashley, burning bright…” she whispered fondly.
Glancing from the glowing flashlight to the tiger-striped cat, Ashley tried not to sigh. Poetry tonight. Last week, Thelma had spoken only in metaphors from children’s stories. At least this time the comment had a vague connection to reality.
“That’s right,” she said. “Now, could you please take your cat?”
Thelma paused, examining the animal as if evaluating whether she’d seen it before. Finally, with the air of coming to a difficult decision, she sighed mightily and reached out, folding her fingers around the creature’s middle and then curling it into her wiry arms.
“Thank you,” Ashley said, hurrying to escape the bug-infested porch.
Thelma had already forgotten her. Chastising the cat with snippets of poetry, the old woman slipped back into her cottage, letting in a score of moths as she went. The chorus of meows grew louder for a moment, and then faded behind the shut door.
Shaking her head, Ashley jogged up the gravel road, the beam of her flashlight bouncing wildly as she went. Six months after her family moved to their property, Thelma arrived at the decrepit bungalow they’d all believed to be condemned. Apparently abandoned by her children for being too much of a handful, the old woman had been gifted the house as a last gesture of nominal support from distant and uninvolved relations – or so the story went. In truth, she seemed to scarcely remember her family and what information they managed to get out of her made so little sense, it could as easily have been fantasy as reality.
She caught the screen door to keep it from slamming as she returned to the house, and then grinned at Jonathan as he glanced up from his almanac. Beneath the buttery light of the living room lamp, the old farmer sat in his customary position on the worn leather sofa, one leg propped atop his knee and his reading glasses perched on his nose. Down the hall, dishes clinked to the melody of a softly playing ballad as Rose finished the washing.
“All taken care of?” he asked.
“Same as always.”
Beneath his bushy white brows, his blue eyes twinkled. “So we’ll see the cat tomorrow.”
“Probably.”
He grinned. “You headed to bed?”
She shrugged and he gave her a knowing look. “Don’t stay up too late, bookworm.”
“When have I ever done that?” she repli
ed innocently.
He scoffed. “Upstairs with you. And, Ashley Rebecca, if I see that light of yours on…”
Fighting to keep a straight face, she nodded. “Yes sir.”
She could hear him chuckling as she ran up the stairs.
Past the landing, the second floor hallway was dim, though the light spilling from Lily’s room and beneath the door to Patrick’s study softened the gloom. With easy familiarity, she swung around the wood banister and headed for the end of the hall, where the stairway to her attic bedroom was a black opening in the shadows.
“Hey, Ashley,” Lily called as she passed the little girl’s room.
She caught herself on the doorframe. Her brow furrowed. “Where’s Dad?” she asked, looking around. Multicolored scraps of paper carpeted the floor, and boxes filled with crayons, markers, scissors and glue were stacked in every available corner.
“Work called.”
Ashley glanced across the hallway. Beneath the doorway, she could see his shadow block the light intermittently as he paced. His muffled voice carried through the wood, harried and intense, but unintelligible.
She bit her lip. Tomorrow afternoon might be too long for him to wait before leaving.
Forcibly pushing the disquiet aside, she turned back to Lily with a smile. “What’s up?”
“I-I’m sorry I ruined things earlier.”
Ashley rolled her eyes. “You didn’t ruin anything. Just get to sleep, okay?”
Shoving off the door, she grinned and then started toward the stairs again.
“Ashe?”
She stopped. Lily rarely used the nickname she’d given her sister when she was too young to pronounce words correctly. And though it was a common enough derivative of her own name, Ashley had never known anyone else to use it.
The name belonged to Lily. Rose and the others seemed to understand that.
She stepped back into the doorway.
“I didn’t,” Lily repeated.
With a sigh, Ashley crossed the room and sank down into the middle of the craft paper. Gently, she took Lily’s hand.
The Children and the Blood Page 2
