“Daughter,” the Man in Blue said to the girl. “We have a guest.”
The girl stepped into the light, and I could finally see her. She was plain, but there was a kindness, a warmth in her clean face that made her pretty. She smiled at me.
I smiled back.
The Man in Blue rested his hand on the girl’s shoulder then. “Where is Mother?”
“A woman went into labor.”
The Man in Blue looked confused. “Who?”
The girl shook her head. “Not from here. A stranger, the husband, came for Mother. She said she would return as soon as she was able.”
The Man in Blue’s eyes tightened. “I must speak with you,” he said to her. Then he turned to me. “Wait here. Do not go outside. Do you understand?”
I nodded. He drew the girl away, out of the hut. I heard whispers but I could not understand the words. Moments later, the girl entered again. Alone.
She did not speak to me. Not at first. She took a step toward me, then turned up her palms. I did not move. She took another step, close enough now for me to catch her scent, earthy and intense. I liked it and I liked her warmth. She extended her arm then, and I let her touch me. She crouched in a corner and sat me down next to her. The girl drew me against her clean shift with the familiarity of someone who knew just the way I would fit. I wriggled, trying to get comfortable.
“You must not go out there,” she said, misunderstanding my movement.
I stilled. “Why?”
“So you can speak,” the girl said with a tiny smile. “It is not safe,” she added.
“It is too quiet.”
“People are sick. The noise hurts them.”
I did not understand. “Why?”
“Haven’t you ever been sick?”
I shook my head.
She smiled and shot me a sly look. “Everyone gets sick. You are full of mischief.”
I did not understand her meaning, so I asked, “The Man in Blue, he is your father?”
“The Man in Blue?” she asked, her eyes glittering. “That is what you call him?”
I said nothing.
The girl nodded. “Yes, he is. But you may call him Uncle and my mother Aunt, when she returns.” She paused. “And you may call me Sister, if you like.”
“Did my father and mother get sick?” I asked, even though I did not remember my father or mother. I did not remember having either.
“Perhaps,” the girl said quietly, and pulled me back against her. “But you are with us now.”
“Why?”
“Because we will take care of you.”
Her voice was gentle and soft, and suddenly I was frightened for her. “Are you sick?”
“Not yet,” she said, then stood.
I followed quickly. She was not like the others. I wanted her to stay.
She glanced back. “I was not leaving,” she assured me.
“I know,” I said, but followed her anyway.
We did not go far. We simply turned into another small room, this one with several mats on the caked straw floor. The girl ducked down behind one and held a bundle of fabric in her hand, as well as a needle and thread. She removed a jar full of something dark and withdrew a puff of it in her fist. She folded the cloth around the fluff and hummed a simple song—it consisted of only a few notes—as she began to sew.
I was hypnotized by her hands. “What is that?”
“A present. Something for you to play with, so you will never feel alone.”
I felt something like fear. “I want to play with you.”
She smiled, warm and bright. “We can all play together.”
This made me happy and I settled down on the mat, lulled by the melody and the rhythm of her fingers. Soon, the shapeless form in her hands became something else; I found a head early on, then two arms and legs. It grew eyes and eyelashes and a thin black smile, then rows of stitches of black hair. Then the older girl made a shift for it, and slipped it on over its stuffed head.
When she finished, I settled back into the crook of her arm.
“Do you like your doll?” She held it up to a shaft of light. There was a spot of red on the underside of its arm, where she held it. Where its wrist would have been.
I did not answer her. “What is that red?” I asked instead.
“Oh.” She handed me the doll and examined her finger. “I pricked myself.” She drew her finger to her mouth and sucked.
I was afraid for her. “Are you hurt?”
“No, do not worry.”
I held the doll close.
“What is her name?” the girl asked me gently.
I was silent for a moment. Then said, “You made it. You choose.”
“Her,” she corrected me. “I cannot choose that for you.”
“Why?”
“Because she belongs to you. There is power in a name. Perhaps once you know her better, you will be able to decide?”
I nodded, and the older girl stood, lifting me with her. My stomach made a noise.
“You are hungry.”
I nodded.
She caressed the crown of my head, smoothing my thick, dark hair. “We are all hungry,” she said quietly. “I can add more water to the soup. Would you like some before supper?”
“Yes.”
She nodded and considered me. “Are you strong enough to fetch water from a well?”
“I am very strong.”
“The handle is very heavy.”
“Not for me.”
“It is a very deep well. . . .”
“I can do it.” I wanted to show her, but I wanted to be outside as well. The close air of the hut was pressing in, and my skin felt tight.
“Then I will tell you the secret to get there, but you must promise not to go any farther into the trees.”
“I promise.”
“And if you see someone, you must promise not to tell them where it is.”
“I promise.”
The girl smiled, and nudged the doll back into my hand. “Take her with you, wherever you go.”
I clutched the doll tightly and brought her to my chest before the girl showed me out. Her eyes followed me as I ran into the fading sunlight. The scent of charred flesh singed my nostrils, but the smell was not unpleasant. A thick haze of smoke hung in the air and stung my eyes even as it rose among the trees.
I followed the path I was told. The well was quite far, and nearly hidden by thick brush. It was large, too; I had to stand on my toes to peer down into it. It was dark. Bottomless. I had an urge to throw the doll in.
I did not. I set it down beside the worn stone and my thin arms began the work of drawing up the water when I heard a cough.
Close.
I was so startled I dropped the handle. I picked up the doll and gripped it tightly as I crept to the other side of the well.
An old woman sat propped up against the trunk of a date palm, her wrinkles deep, folding in on themselves. Her black eyes were unfocused and watery. She was weak.
And not alone.
Someone was crouched over her, a man with waves of black hair and perfect, beautiful skin. He held a cup to the old woman’s lips and water dribbled down her chin. She coughed again, startling me.
His obsidian eyes flicked to mine, and something flashed behind them. Something I did not know or understand.
The woman followed his gaze and focused on me. Her stare pinned me to the ground as her eyes widened, the whites showing around her irises. The man placed a calming hand on her shoulder, then stared back at me.
I felt a roll of sickness deep in my belly and doubled over. Red swirled at the edges of my vision. My head swam. I gulped for air and slowly, slowly rose.
The woman began to tremble and whisper. The man—surprised, curious, but not afraid—leaned his head in to hear her. Without realizing it, I took a step nearer too.
She whispered louder and louder. It was the same word, just one word, that she repeated over and over again. Her frail arm ro
se, her finger pointed at me like an accusation.
“Mara,” she whispered, again and again and again. And then she began to scream.
25
MARA,” A VOICE SAID, WARMING MY SKIN.
My eyes opened, but the trees were gone. The sunlight had vanished. There was only darkness.
And Noah, next to me, his fingers resting on my cheek.
A nightmare. Just a nightmare. I let out a slow breath and then smiled, relieved, until I realized we weren’t in bed.
We were standing by the guest room door. I had opened it—my hand rested on the knob.
“Where are you going?” Noah asked softly.
The last thing I remembered was falling asleep beside him, even though I shouldn’t have. My house was tainted, but in Noah’s arms, I felt safe.
But I left them during the night. I left him.
I had been sleepwalking.
The details of the dream hung low in my mind, thick as smoke. But they didn’t fade with consciousness. I didn’t know where I was going in my sleep or why, but now that I was awake, I needed to see something before I forgot to look.
“My bedroom,” I answered him, my voice clear.
I needed to see that doll.
I pulled Noah along behind me and we crept silently to my room. Noah helped me unpack the doll from the box I had entombed it in, no questions asked. I said nothing as I looked it over, my skin feeling tight as I held it.
Its black smile was a little faded—from wear or washing, I didn’t know—and the dress it wore was newer, but still crude. Definitely handmade. Otherwise? Otherwise it was eerily similar to the doll in my dream.
Maybe more than similar.
I remembered something then.
There was a spot of red on the underside of its arm, where she held it.
I lifted up the doll’s sleeve.
“What is that red?” I had asked the older girl.
“Oh,” she said, and handed me the doll. She examined her finger. “I pricked myself.”
Looking at the doll now, I saw a dark brownish red spot on the underside of its arm. Where its wrist would have been.
My flesh felt dead where my skin met the doll’s. I didn’t know what the dream meant, if anything, but I didn’t care. I was starting to hate this thing and wanted to get rid of it.
“I’m throwing it out,” I whispered to Noah. He looked confused. I’d explain in the morning. We couldn’t get caught, and the more we talked, the more we risked it.
He watched as I slipped on shoes, went outside, and threw the doll on top of the swollen garbage bags in the bin my father had already brought out to the curb. It would be taken away soon, and then I wouldn’t think about it or dream about it or be tortured with it by Jude again.
We went back to Noah’s bed; the doll and the nightmare made me uneasy, and I didn’t want to sleep alone. I rested my head against his shoulder and my eyes closed, lulled by the feel of his silent, even breathing beneath my hands. When I woke again, it was still dark. But Noah was still next to me, and we were still in bed.
I was tired but relieved. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” Noah said, but his voice wasn’t thick with sleep.
I drew back to look at him. “Were you awake?”
He pretended to stretch. “What? No.”
I rolled over onto my side and smiled. “You totally were. You were watching me sleep.”
“No. That would be creepy. And boring. Watching you shower, perhaps . . .”
I punched him in the arm, then snuggled deeper under the covers.
“As much as I’m enjoying this,” Noah said, as he rolled over me, leaning on his arms, “and believe me, I am,” he added, looking down into my eyes as a mischievous smile formed on his lips, “I’m afraid you have to go.”
I shook my head. He nodded.
“It’s still dark.” I pouted.
“Fishing. With Joseph. You have to get back to your room before he wakes up.”
I sighed dramatically.
“I know,” he said, his smile growing wider. “I wouldn’t want to sleep without me either.”
I rolled my eyes and scooted out from beneath him. “Now you’ve ruined it.”
“Just as I intended,” he said, leaning back against the pillows. His eyes followed me to the door.
Torture. I pulled it open.
“Mara?”
“Noah?”
“Do wear those pajamas again.”
“Ass,” I said, grinning. Then left. I padded to my room, passing the French doors in the hallway, the night still black beyond them. I quickened my pace, hating to be reminded of what I couldn’t see.
Of who I couldn’t see.
It was nearly dawn, though. Jude wouldn’t risk breaking in so close to daylight. The thought reassured me and I slipped into my bed, my parents none the wiser. I closed my eyes. I had no trouble falling asleep.
The trouble began when I woke up.
At around eight, my father knocked on the door to make sure I was awake. I poured myself out of bed and over to my dresser to pick out clothes for Horizons.
But when I opened my underwear drawer, my grandmother’s doll was inside.
It was all I could do not to scream. I backed away from the dresser and locked myself in the bathroom, sliding down the tiled wall to the cold tiled floor. I pressed a fist against my mouth.
Was Jude watching me last night? Did he see me throw it away? And then put it back in my room while I was asleep in Noah’s?
Goose bumps pebbled my flesh and my skin was slick with sweat. But I couldn’t let my father know anything was wrong. I had to dress and look and act like everything was normal. Like I was healthy and Jude was dead and none of this was happening.
“Get up,” I whispered to myself. I stayed on the floor for one more second, then stood. I turned the faucet on, cupped my hand under the stream of water and brought it to my lips, glancing at my reflection in the mirror as I straightened.
I froze. The contours of my face seemed strange. Subtly unfamiliar. My cheekbones were sharper, my lips were swollen as if I’d been kissing, my cheeks were flushed, and my hair stuck to the back of my neck like paste.
I was transfixed. The water slipped through my fingers.
The sound of it hitting the porcelain sink brought me back. My throat ached—I turned the faucet back on and cupped another handful of water and greedily drank it from my palm. It cooled me from the inside out. I looked in the mirror again.
I still looked different, but I felt a little better. I was tired and scared and angry and frustrated and obviously stressed out. Maybe I was getting sick, too. Maybe that’s why I looked strange. I rolled my neck, stretched my arms above my head, and then drank again. My skin prickled, as if I was being watched.
I glanced at my dresser. The doll was still inside.
“Almost ready?” Dad called out from the hallway.
“Yeah,” I yelled back. I turned away from the mirror and put on clothes. I threw one last look at my dresser before I left my room.
The doll had to go.
26
GOOD MORNING,” MY FATHER SAID WHEN I FINALLY appeared in the kitchen.
“Morning.” I grabbed two granola bars and a bottle of water from the pantry, gulping half of it down while Dad finished his coffee. We headed for the car together.
He rolled down the windows once we were inside. It was unusually gorgeous out—blue and cloudless and not hot yet at all, but the inside of my skin burned, anyway.
“How’re you feeling, kid?”
I shot him a glance. “Why?”
“You look a little tired.”
“Thanks . . .”
“Oh, you know what I mean. Hey, you know what movie I rented?”
“Um . . . no?”
He paused meaningfully. “Free Willy,” he said with a giant smile.
“Okay . . .”
“You loved that movie—we used to watch it all the time, remember
?”
Like when I was six.
“And Joseph is up in arms about the plight of orcas now, so I thought we could watch it together, as a family,” he said. Then added, “I bet Noah would like it.”
I couldn’t help but smile. He was clearly making an effort. “Okay, Dad.”
“It’s uplifting.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Transformational—”
“Okay, Dad.”
He grinned and turned on the classic rock station and the two of us sat in silence. But being back in his car again, I found myself reflexively glancing back in the side mirror. I was looking for the truck, I realized.
I was looking for Jude.
I spent the whole drive to Horizons worrying I would see him behind us, but I didn’t. Dad dropped me off and I was warmly welcomed by Brooke, who introduced me to the art therapist I’d be working with a few days a week. She had me draw a house, a tree, and my family—some kind of test, definitely—and once I did so to her satisfaction, it was time for Group. Half of the students had to share their fears.
I was very glad to be in the other half.
Phoebe kept her distance from me that day, and Jamie made me laugh the way he always did. The hours passed unremarkably but I found myself sneaking glances outside at every opportunity, waiting for the white truck to appear in the parking lot.
It never did.
When my father and I pulled up to the house that afternoon, Mom’s car was already in the driveway. More importantly, so was Noah’s.
I felt a burst of relief. I needed to tell him about the doll in my room this morning, about Jude in my room last night while we slept. I nearly dove out of the car while it was still moving.
“Tell your mom I’m off to work on her list,” Dad said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be back soon.”
I nodded and shut the door. He didn’t drive away until I was inside the house.
Machine gun fire erupted from our family room, and I entered it to find Noah and Joseph slouched on the floor with controllers in their hands, their eyes glued to the TV.
Our conversation would have to wait.
“How was fishing?” I asked, in a casual voice that did not suit my mood. I walked through the archway into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I was hungry, but nothing looked good.
The Evolution of Mara Dyer md-2 Page 12
