“By the looks of it, you could get four if you wanted.” I tuck my hands under my arms as my teeth begin to chatter. This cold front is moving in fast.
Without warning, Jess wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes. She rests her chin on my stomach and looks up at me, smiling wider than I’ve ever seen before. “They won’t make fun of me at school.”
“Why would they?”
“Because the tooth fairy did come.” She releases her octopus grip. “They say she doesn’t come to kids like me.”
“Kids like you? You mean beautiful, brave ones?” I smile.
Jess scrunches her nose. “No.” She looks down and messes with the floppy tips of the glove. “Kids that can’t get new stuff like everyone else.”
“Well, they’re wrong then, aren’t they?” My lies suddenly feel justified. After I start working, I’ll be able to buy her a whole box of pencils, better-fitting gloves, and a new coat with a fur-lined hood so she won’t have to wear those earmuffs that deaden all sound.
Wiping frizzy hair out of her eyes, Jess smiles and grabs her backpack. “Aunt K is taking me to school today, so I’ll go to the gift shop later.” Jess wads up the dollars gripped in her hand.
“Want me to walk you there after school?” I glance over my shoulder for signs of her aunt.
Jess stands tall. “No, silly. I know the way.”
“Remember to turn right at the white fence.” I motion so she gets a visual.
“Right.” She mirrors me. Her eyebrows squeeze in concentration, scripting the path to memory. Even so, I’m not so sure she’s going to remember.
A car engine knocks and pings as Aunt K’s red sedan slowly backs onto the grass, missing the driveway by at least three feet. The windows are fogged making it hard for me to make out her aunt’s morning mood.
I kneel down and stuff the money in her pocket. “Keep your money hidden until you need it, okay?”
Jess nods. “What’s your favorite color?” she asks, as I help zip up her jacket.
“Honey yellow.”
Jess wrinkles her nose. “Carnation pink is better.” She flashes that gapped-tooth grin, but it quickly disappears when her aunt lays a long honk on the horn. I cringe. The sound is sure to wake Mom. I tuck my hands under my arms and watch Jess trudge to the car. Not only does she struggle to get into the back seat, but her aunt backs over the curb, knocking over a trash can and bicycle, before Jess has even closed the car door.
I plant my feet into the spongy grass. I can’t abandon Jess. I’m taking the job and staying in Wakefield, no matter what.
One of the bearded college students living across the street rushes out his door wearing flannel pajamas, a concert T-shirt, and hair that hasn’t been washed in a week. “Dude!” He picks up his mangled bike. He spots me on the other side of the street. “Did you see that idiot?”
At that moment, my hands clench. Tremors coil through my arms. No. No. No. Oh please, not now. Not out in the open and in front of someone, no less. It’s one week too soon.
“I . . . I can’t . . .” I swallow back a scream and the rest of the words, as stabbing heat streaks down my legs. I stagger, tripping over my feet that I can’t feel, and reach for the side rail.
“Need help?” the guy calls. He jogs my way. I shake my head, struggling to get back into my house. With each step, squeezing pain spirals up each vertebra. “Can I call an ambulance?”
“No!” I grit my teeth and pull myself up the steps. My foot slips through the rotted wood. “Please, don’t.”
He holds his hands out, conceding, and backs away. “Cool.” As I lunge for the front door, he turns to go, mumbling, “I’m surrounded by a bunch of mental heads.”
I stumble into the house. My bag tugs at my side, a heavy weight. I press my palm against the wall, forcing my legs to keep moving. Get to my bed. If Mom sees me, if she knows, we’ll be packed up and gone by sunset. I’m determined to suffer through the attack and prove that I can handle them on my own.
Burning steel feels as if it’s being rammed and twisted into my spine. A high-pitched sound in my ears drowns out the steady hum of the refrigerator. The musty scent of aged cigarette smoke ignites a piercing ache in my head. My stomach churns. Don’t puke. Fight it. As I take another step, reaching the hall, sharp pain slashes across my back. Standing in front of Mom’s door, I stifle a wail. The world spins black, like I’m slowly being sucked into a tunnel. I’ve got to get to my bed before darkness takes over.
Somehow, I drag myself into my room. My hands shake as I close the door. As soon as I do, my sight vanishes. Everything turns black. All feeling strips from my legs. My knees collapse, hitting the wood floor. I push piles of clothing out of the way, feeling my way to my bed, abandoning my bag in the process. Pain kicks me in the spine. I face-plant into my comforter and bite my tongue to keep from screaming. I taste blood. Hot tears stick my hair against my cheeks. I press my trembling lips together.
Hoisting myself onto the bed, I shove my face into the pillow to stifle my cry. Torturing pain rips through me, taunting me to scream. I pound the mattress, fighting to stay quiet.
More rippling pain tears down my back. I know what comes next. The feeling of hot needles snakes through my eyes, lodging deep into my skull. I press the heel of my palms into my eye sockets, but it does nothing to quell the pain. It never does. Now comes the silvery mist, like a lingering haze after fireworks. It takes over my sight and flashes isolated snapshots of images across the movie screen of my mind.
Blinding white light
Splashing mud
A disheveled mouse with a flapping tail
A green kite in the wind.
My blood turns ice cold. My stomach hardens. I have to run. I have to get away. Escape. Thick air chokes my throat. My legs won’t move. I’m trapped, lying paralyzed in my bed.
A bird with black wings and the face of a lion swoops down
A piercing screech shatters the air
The mouse lies on wet ground, sliced open.
Pain sizzles my spine. I writhe. My arms flail. A violent tug yanks somewhere deep inside me, as if my soul was being sucked out. I wish it were and I could die right now. I knock into my nightstand, sending my alarm clock hurtling to the floor. Controlling my own body isn’t even possible. All I can do is suffocate in the hot pillow and fight the screams. Hang in there, it’s almost over . . .
White flashes again. Everything turns red.
Then swallowed by darkness.
My stomach cramps. Vomit pushes its way up. Oh please, no. Completely blind, I feel the edge of my nightstand and follow the leg down the side and around until I find the plastic trash can. Bringing it close to the edge of my bed, I lean over and heave. Hanging there, limp and cold, a raw terror settles over me. Those birds sounded as if they were right outside my window, ready to destroy me. The silver haze fades to black. The attack is over, but the lingering sense of danger remains.
Mom’s door creaks open across the hall. She heard me? With every ounce of strength left, I shove the trash can back in its place—or at least I think I do—and pull myself back into bed to hide under my blanket.
My door clicks open. Somehow I manage to lie still under the covers as the door hits the wall. “Cera?” Mom’s worried whisper cuts through my throbbing head. Acid burns my throat as I swallow. Her voice tells me she knows. The acrid smell of bile doesn’t help my case.
It takes every last bit of strength to make myself lie still with the sheet pulled over my head. I steady my breathing and keep my trembling hands tucked against my chest. Boards creak as she comes to the edge of my bed, kicking into something. Probably the alarm clock. Every nerve feels raw, but I have to be strong. Breathe slow, rhythmic.
I know it’s juvenile, but I pretend to be asleep. No such luck. She pulls the blanket off, not fooled. A sweet draft, smelling of lavender and pencil lead replaces the hot, stuffy air. Her trembling fingers rub against my clammy cheek, pulling my sweaty hair off my face. “Honey, I
’m right here.” Her voice sounds weak. “Everything will be okay.” A knot swells my throat shut. All I want to do is sit up and tell her the image I had was the worst ever, and that I felt every bit of the pain as if it were happening to me. But I keep quiet.
Mom sniffles. Is she crying? I want to open my eyes, but I don’t dare move, not when I can feel her hovering over me. If my eyes meet hers, I’ll fall apart. After a few seconds of waiting for me to respond, she rummages for something on the floor.
I crack open one eye. The blinding haze is gone. Through my lashes, I catch her setting the alarm clock on my nightstand. The floorboard creaks again as she quietly goes out with my trashcan and shuts the door. After I’m sure she’s gone, I unleash silent sobs, drenching my pillow.
I’ve just ruined everything.
It’s late afternoon when I finally wake up. I sit up, my body stiff and sore. I roll my shoulders and push myself out of bed to change my puke-stained clothes. After slipping into a pair of jeans, I carefully navigate a light blue T-shirt over the bruise that’s starting to form on my wrist from where I busted my hand against the alarm clock.
My head throbs when I bend down to pick up my bag as it vibrates. I check my phone. A missed call and text messages. All from Mark. I rub my temple to quell the ache. I promised him the sketches this morning and was supposed to meet the other owner. I sit on the edge of my bed and read the messages, all saying roughly the same thing: Come by whenever you can. Bring the sketches. We’re waiting. I’m thrilled that I didn’t blow the opportunity. I suppose girls with knowledge of classical art are in short supply. I send a quick text back: Couldn’t make it this a.m. Don’t have sketches yet.
I open my door and search for Mom. Her door is closed, but I can hear the bathroom sink running. My phone vibrates with Mark’s response: Come anyway. Partner here.
With Mom occupied, I can slip out, secure my job, and then come back ready to stand my ground about not leaving Wakefield. I grab my jacket and bag and step lightly through the living room. I send Mark a quick reply: Headed your way now. I stuff the phone in my back pocket.
A chipped mug of cold tea sits on the coffee table with a few of Mom’s art books. Tucked underneath that pile is her old sketchbook. Maybe she’s drawing again. Last night’s conversation must have made an impact. Not only that, if I can dig out a sketch, I can take her work to Mark after all. She’ll notice if I take the whole book, but not if I take one drawing.
A folded paper pokes out of the sketchbook. It’s practically begging me to look. How can I not? Excitement floods through my veins as I slide out the aged paper.
Before I can unfold it, Mom’s door creaks open.
I stuff the drawing inside my bag between the pages of Paradise Lost. Stacking her art books just as they were, I jump up from the couch and slip on the jacket to cover the bruise on my arm. I rush to open the front door before she spots me.
“Stop right there.” Mom’s voice drops low. Too low. I swallow. I’m positive she knows about the attack, but did she also see me take the sketch? I take a deep breath and turn to face her.
She stands at end of the hall looking ghostly pale with tired, bloodshot eyes. “Shut that door.” Mom stifles a shiver at the exposing cold creeping through the room. I quickly close the door. “We’re leaving. There’s no time for anything else. I’ve already made the arrangements and picked up the rental car.” It takes her effort just to get to the coffee table. She scoops up the books and sketchpad with a quiet grunt. Her fingers are smeared with pencil lead. “There’s a town in the Northeast with a manufacturing company that needs someone in their shipping department. It will be a little cooler, but we’ll manage.” She clutches the books to her chest. The last thing Mom needs is colder weather. “Start packing your room, then help me with the kitchen.”
I shift, repositioning my bag strap on my shoulder. “Mom, you’re not well.”
“Are you trying to deny you had an episode? You were screaming this morning, Cera. Did you think I wouldn’t know?”
“I’m not denying it. I’m saying I can handle it.”
The dark circles under Mom’s eyes intensify her stare. “Go, pack your room. It’s best we leave within the hour.”
“Within the hour?” I follow after her as she heads to her room, walking her hand along the wall for support.
“Mom, that’s insane. You need rest. Not only that, instead of spending money on a new deposit or rental car, you need to get treatment for that cough—it’s draining all your energy.”
She sits heavily on the edge of her bed. “It’s not me I’m worried about.” She places her sketchbook in the unsealed box at the foot of her bed. Neatly stacked moving boxes line the wall near the door. “If you aren’t willing to pack your room, then I’ll just assume you plan on leaving everything behind.”
It’s a passive threat. I don’t have many belongings, but Mom knows I hang on to what little I have. What she doesn’t know is that this time, I will fight to stay. My pulse punches the inside of my throat as I dig my feet in the dingy brown carpet and cross my arms. “Things are good here. We should stay and make it work.”
Mom puckers her lips and stacks the box in line with the others. “Your attacks will only get worse if we stay, and then you’ll start hallucinating again and claim you’re seeing strange creatures walking around. I won’t risk someone finding out and putting you in some institution because of it. It’s my job to protect you, whether you like it or not.”
“No one’s going to take me, or lock me up, or whatever. In fact—” My phone buzzes in my back pocket. When Mom’s back is turned, I check the number. It’s Mark again.
As Mom turns to face me, I hit the button, sending the call to voicemail.
“It’s what’s best for you.” She puts her hands on her hips. “You don’t have a choice in the matter. End of discussion.”
Heat boils inside me. She’s flat-out wrong. “Having a normal life, that’s what's best for me. Maybe you don’t care to find out what’s wrong with me, but I do. I need to find answers as to why I’m this freak—”
“You’re not—”
“Yes, I am, Mom, and you know it. Look at me. You won’t even let me go to school anymore. I don’t have friends, or a pet, or anything else normal kids my age have. You certainly don’t even have a normal life. You’re acting totally irrational because I’ve had an episode—”
My phone pings with a voice message. Mom stiffens. Her wrinkles contort into that all-too-familiar scowl. “Who’s calling you?” She puts her hand out. “Give me your phone.”
I pull away. “It’s no one.”
Mom’s face blanches with absolute terror. “Who have you been talking to?” She rips the phone from my hands as another text message comes through.
“Mom—” I try to get my phone back as Mom silently reads the message.
Her expression hardens. “Grab only what you need—we’re leaving right now.”
I expected a fight, not a full-blown freak-out. “What’s gotten into you? Why are you acting like I’m some murderer who needs to skip town before the police arrive? Is it because I talked to someone or that I had an attack? People have epilepsy and they don’t skip town. Besides, I got through it just fine.”
She abandons the phone fight and, with a renewed strength that comes out of nowhere, hurries past me in a frenzy. She hustles down the hall toward the kitchen. “It’s not fine. You don’t understand.”
I charge after her. “Understand what? That you’re totally overreacting because of a few bad dreams and one phone call? I have panic attacks. So what?”
She scours the room before heading straight for her purse sitting on the kitchen counter. I don’t know if she even heard me.
“Seriously Mom, for the last ten years we’ve always packed up and moved like we’re fugitives. I’d like to know what it’s like to have a normal birthday. Instead of a party or cake, I get bubble wrap and a stack of cardboard boxes from whatever shipping company you’re w
orking for. Can’t we stop running for once?”
My mother’s eyes glisten with hurt, but she doesn’t defend herself. One thing about Mom, when she’s determined, she’s a total bulldozer and doesn’t lose focus. “Get your things, and get in the car.”
I stand by the couch, blocking her way to the front door. “You’re going off the same way you did when I had that first attack ten years ago. It’s not like it’s new. I’m telling you, I can handle these episodes.”
“Lonicera Eleanor Marlowe, I said get in the car.”
I plant my feet. “No.”
She arches one eyebrow and her jaw tightens. I know that look. It’s the one that says my open defiance has just waged war. She’s even used my full name. My pulse drums in my head with warning, but I can’t cave. If I do, something inside me will die. I lock my knees, holding firm. Mom has no idea how hard I’m willing to fight.
“Don’t argue. Get in—”
“I won’t run from my problems anymore. From now on, I’m facing them head-on. I’ll find out what’s wrong with me and change it. I’ll walk Jess to school and let her know she’s not alone. In fact, she’s probably shivering in front of the school waiting for me right now. I’ll stop hiding in the shadows. I’ll make friends and fix the stupid porch rail. I won’t let a few attacks ruin my life. Not anymore. This time, I’m staying!” I kick the particleboard coffee table, sending Mom’s ceramic mug flying. It shatters against the wall.
Mom clutches her keys, turning her knuckles white as she speaks slowly, deliberately. “Moving has kept us safe—kept you safe. Facing your issue is the worst thing you could do. Do you hear me? Don’t ever—it will destroy you and everyone around you. Now get in the car.”
“So I should just listen to you because—”
“Because you’re acting like your father! These attacks destroyed him. I won’t let that happen to you!” She tosses her purse to the floor and goes into a coughing fit. Her face turns red and her hair, usually smooth and perfectly placed, hangs in her face.
Her heated words are a final kick in the gut. She’s never compared me to my dead father. She never talks about him, doesn’t even have a picture of him. It all makes sense now—why we move. I’m the burden on her slumped shoulders, the monster she’s trying to hide. I can’t even control my own anger. The broken mug and cold tea splattered on the wall are proof.
Mortal Sight Page 3
