by Trisha Leigh
Reaper’s dad smiles a lot, although he casts more than one concerned glance her direction. If she’s been this open with her abrasive unhappiness with us, it’s hard to imagine how she’s been at home.
In unspoken agreement, none of us bring up our pasts, or the syringe incidents, or demand answers to all of our questions about where we were born. We laugh, the adults tell stories about the people who aren’t here that make us tear up or smile or finally see little bits of ourselves in someone else. The food—fried chicken, ham and cheese grits, mac and cheese, fried green tomatoes, and kale salad—is rich and lowcountry and delicious. It draws us closer together, knitting the fabric of our loose connection tighter.
By the time evening falls and we say good-bye, it’s the tiniest bit easier to believe that Gypsy, Mole, Haint, Reaper, Goose, Pollyanna, and Athena could become Norah, Shiloh, Becca, Eve, Hosea, Tate, and Theo.
The thing is, there are people out there determined not to let us, and after the better part of two weeks in the real world, I’m no longer sure I want to be someone else, anyway.
By the time we’re in the car on our way back to Charleston, Flicker dominates my thoughts. We haven’t spent a ton of time with her over the past five years, but she’s still a Cavy. And with only ten of us, there isn’t much that means more than that.
Her appearance today, and subsequent disappearance, lends a sense of urgency to our search—even more so than our own attacks. She’s injured, maybe dying, and the pulsing, screaming impotence of not being able to help makes me pull out my phone and text Jude, telling him we’ll be home by seven and he can meet me, if he still wants to study.
In the spirit of gathering lost pieces of the puzzle, I turn to the immediate source of information. “What do you know about the place where my mother gave birth to me?”
I have to convince my tongue to hang on to the question. A sixth—or in my case, a seventh—sense writhes, sure that involving my father could be hazardous to his safety. But there’s no other way. We need information, and we can’t get it all on our own.
“What do you want to know?” He flicks a glance at me, hands gripped tight around the wheel.
“What kind of place was it? Who owned it? A charity? A church?” I pause, watching his reaction, then press. “A little more about my mother would be nice, too.”
I haven’t asked until now because it’s hard to tell whether he’s holding back for my sake or because he’s dealing with his own issues. We’ve had enough to deal with without adding another emotional bomb to the mix.
“I’ll tell you everything I remember about your mother. I wish I knew more.” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing several times, and taps out a slow rhythm on the steering wheel with his thumbs. “As far as the place you were born, I’m not privy to any details. I’d be willing to put you in touch with Abby’s parents, with the very serious understanding that you not let those people make you feel badly about yourself.”
The words jab, like tiny little darts with poisoned tips hitting every exposed inch of my skin. My mother’s parents, the ones who—according to my father—forced my mother to act against her will, could know more. Must know more.
Flicker’s pained expression, the hot, red blood pumping from her gut, coat my feelings in steel. If my grandparents have the answers, then I’ll talk to them. “Okay.”
“Promise. Promise me you won’t listen to anything hateful.” His face shades red, and his fingers have stopped tapping and returned to their death grip on the wheel.
The sum of the picture amps up my dread. “I promise.”
“Fine. I assume they’ve seen everything on the news, and that the social workers contacted them as well, but it’s best if I talk to them first. Give me a few days.”
“Okay.”
He quiets, not speaking again until his face cools off and his fingers resume their lazy drumbeat. “Your mother was the girl every guy in school wanted to date. Not the most popular. Not even the prettiest, maybe, depending on your idea of those kinds of things, but man, there was something about her. She made everyone laugh.”
“I make people laugh,” I murmur, letting a sense of wonder lighten my heart. “But not always because I mean to.”
He gives me a wry smile. “That second part is from me, I’m afraid.”
“It’s true. M— Shiloh’s like that, though. Everyone’s favorite.”
“You’ve been at a new school for a week and you’ve made friends. That’s your mom.” He smiles. “And one day, she walked right up to me after a school play and asked me to the Sadie Hawkins dance.”
I can picture it in my head, even with only photos and a few sentences to go on. She wouldn’t have been shy at all; he would have been blushing. My heart squeezes a little at how easy it is to see them both in myself. “And you said yes.”
“You’re damn right. I thought she’d made a mistake or something, but she wanted to take me. We dated for the better part of our sophomore and junior years. Fell in love, I guess.” He sighs, emitting an aching wistfulness into the car. “That’s when she got pregnant. Sent me a letter from a place called Saint Catherine’s House explaining everything.”
I force my breathing to stay normal. It’s the same place Mole and Polly were born.
“I went to your grandparents’ house, begged them to reconsider, but they threw me out,” he continues, unaware. “Filed a restraining order.”
His fingers squeeze, then flex until they pop, as though he’s reminding himself to calm down.
“What was she into at school?” It’s as if I’ve spent seventeen years in the desert, desperate for a drink, even just a drop, and now that I’m within reach of a waterfall I never want to stop gulping.
It’s good we didn’t mention anything to our parents en masse. This way, I get to find out more about my mom while figuring out if my father knows anything about Saint Catherine’s, or what happened to her there.
“Abby? Everything. She was a cheerleader and editor of the newspaper. Student council, too, but not the president or anything. Oh. And she loved acting, mostly to piss off her mother.”
“What else? You must have tons of stories.”
“Not many I’m comfortable sharing with a teenaged girl, strange enough. Maybe in ten years.”
He chuckles, and I do, too, even though it’s a little awkward. I know he’s talking about sex, and it’s kind of cool knowing that he’s not going to avoid certain topics with me, but still. It’s not something I’ve ever discussed with someone who isn’t my age. The Cavy discussions are pretty general, since none of us know anything firsthand.
Jude’s face flashes behind my eyes, an attempt to pull my fantasies down the road of normal teenaged life, but I throw up a block. I’ve got enough on my plate without wasting hours daydreaming about a guy who could never understand me.
Who’ll barely live long enough to try.
“She loved graveyards, too. They were her favorite spots in the city. Some people think they’re creepy, but she thought they were peaceful. I’d find her studying there, or reading a book on a blanket. Sunday afternoons were like a treasure hunt. Among dead people, but still.”
“I like cemeteries, too. The one by my school is extra mysterious.”
“The Unitarian? Yeah, your mom thought so, too—the only one I know of that she didn’t like going into at night, but she’s not alone. Plenty of people get the willies just standing outside, myself included. We’ll have to go on a ghost tour some time; they’re pretty interesting. At least one of them goes past the Unitarian gates.”
“And tell the story of Annabel Lee?”
“Yep. One of your new friends tell you about that?”
“Maya.” I smile, thinking of that first day of school and her rendition of the life and death of Lavinia Fisher. “She’s a good storyteller.”
“Well, she’s a Charlestonian. It’s in our blood, especially if the story involves local history.”
“How did she die? Abby?” Even tho
ugh I whisper, the words explode in the car like fireworks, loud and bright. I need to know, for the Cavies, but I don’t really want to hear. I want to think of her alive.
“Degenerative brain disease that attacked her limbic system, then the rest.” He swallows hard and taps his head lightly. “I don’t think they ever diagnosed it before it spread.” He swallows. “We lost touch after she came back from that place.”
“How long ago did she die?”
“About five years after you were born.” He shakes his head, slowly. “Too damn soon.”
We’re quiet for a while, shadows taking over the car as the earth spins away from the sun. The trip home goes faster than the drive to Beaufort, probably because of the anticipation this morning. It’s not that late, but the stress of the day has me struggling to stay awake as we sit through a stream of stoplights on the south side of town.
“What kind of lawyer are you?” A yawn distorts the end of my question, proffered in an attempt to keep my eyes open.
“Me? Immigration.”
“Did you always want to be a lawyer?”
“No. When I was considering it, a lawyer friend of mine gave me some advice. He said you should only go to law school if there’s absolutely nothing else you can imagine yourself doing.”
“And you couldn’t? Imagine anything else?” Imagining a future, what I want to be, feels like asking for too much when I can’t last a week without my past poking me in the neck. Literally.
“I used to want to be a musician.”
“What happened?”
“Well, it turns out I have no talent.” He yawns this time and punches the button that lets us through the gate and into the driveway. “That realization made for a brutal day.”
I think about what he said while I brush my teeth and wash the outside smell off my face and hands. It’s kind of sad, to think that my father is only a lawyer because he can’t play an instrument or sing. None of us Cavies have ever dreamed of being anything other than people who can do weird, occasionally dangerous things. At least, if they have, they’ve never confided in me.
A glance at the clock promises that Jude will be over any minute. I discard my dirty jeans and my shirt that smells a little like a swamp. In the box of my mother’s things—my dad had kept them after he’d picked her up at the home—I find a soft pink sweater and pull it out and over my head, toss on my second pair of jeans, and head downstairs to wait.
Chapter Seventeen
The buzzer rings, and before I can get down the stairs the muffled sound of my father chatting with Jude makes me hot all over. I’m not sure whether it’s Jude’s presence, or the thought of what my father might be saying—or thinking—about the visit that does it, but either way they have to notice my red cheeks.
Jude’s eyes light up at my appearance. “Hi. Thanks again for agreeing to tutor me tonight. I know you’re probably tired.”
I am tired. My legs feel heavy; the tension in the back of my neck is curled into a ball. The thought of crawling into bed and ignoring the memory of a bloody Flicker appeals more than a little. But not more than spending time with Jude, and not more than maybe finding at least a few answers along the way.
“It’s fine,” I tell him, even though it’s so much more than fine.
“I’ll leave you two the kitchen for your studies.” My father casts me a look that’s hard to decipher, or maybe it’s not but I haven’t logged enough hours of practice. “I’ll be in the living room catching up on some reading.”
I guess that means we’re not going upstairs, which is good because my room hasn’t been boyproofed and I’m not the tidiest person on the planet.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Crespo,” Jude says as I nudge him through the doorway into the kitchen.
“You, too, son.”
“Did you bring tomorrow’s assignment?” I ask once we’re settled on the same stools we chose the last time he was here. “I can check it before you hand it in, and then we could get a head start on the next chapter.”
“Norah, I told you. No matter how good of a tutor you are, my Latin grade is doomed.” His face gets tight, as though he’s preparing to shield off an attack, but it’s for nothing.
I’m not going to attack him. I’m the last person to give advice on any kind of real-world problem, but there has to be a better solution to his father’s incompetence. Maybe my mind should be working out ways to ask what his dad knows about Darley instead, but I can’t stop wondering what will happen to Jude when he fails out of CA.
“Why are you here, then? I mean, if you don’t care about your grades. Or the fact that Coach Patton is going to think I’m a horrible tutor.” I hop off the stool and slide over to the fridge, coming up with a Coke for me and raised eyebrows for him. “Drink?”
“I’ll take a Dr. Pepper, if you have it.”
The fridge is stocked with about every kind of coke, something new to me since leaving Darley Hall. We weren’t really allowed sweets, especially not processed ones, except on special occasions such as a birthday or, more likely, a breakthrough of some kind. The plain variety is my favorite, although 7UP has its merits.
I grab Jude a maroon can and head back to the counter, still waiting on his answer. It doesn’t come until after he pulls the tab and takes a swig so big it must drain half the can. “First of all, I’m doing you a favor. You’ll never be asked to tutor again. And secondly, maybe this is my sly, underhanded way of having a kind-of-sort-of date since you won’t agree to go out with me.”
His frankness returns the warmth to my skin, but underneath it, common sense sits up and pays attention. Hears something else, something more, and doesn’t want to let it go in favor of sweet words. “Maybe. But I don’t think you like the idea of failing. You’re smart. You’re almost as good at Latin as I am, and that’s saying something.”
He doesn’t return my smile, meant to ensure he knows I’m not seriously that conceited.
“There must be another way,” I finish lamely.
“Any other way involves talking to our disinterested principal or sappy counselor about the way things are at home, which means them thinking even less of my dad than they do now. Or they could even send social services, put me in foster care or something.” He shakes his head, then finishes off his drink. “This way is better. He keeps his dignity; I keep my dad.”
“But what about your dignity? And what about the basketball team? You’re really good, and the coach seems to think you’ve got a chance at a college scholarship.”
“Yeah, that’ll suck. Transferring for senior year means I won’t be able to play at public school.” He gives nonchalance a good try, but I’ve seen him play. It’s a big deal.
“What if you talked to your dad? Told him what’s going on, asked him for ideas… CA must have scholarships to give, right? If he helped you fill out applications, the counselor wouldn’t have to be involved, at least.” My suggestion brings to mind scholarship students in the movies and how they’re always treated like lower-class citizens, but Jude’s already so ensconced that even if people found out, he’d still have his friends and the team.
I can’t imagine Maya being disloyal.
His eyes meet mine for long enough to share his desire to keep his life the way it is before he shrugs as though it doesn’t matter one way or another.
“I’d like to meet your dad,” I blurt, because he’s obviously about done talking about this.
My comment earns me another raised eyebrow but also a hint of a smile. “I think that’s very forward of you, Norah Crespo. I mean, we haven’t even been out on a date yet.”
“No, no, not because of that. I mean, I was just saying… Oh, fits and starts.” My cheeks flame.
“I’m kidding, weirdo.”
I blow out a breath, steadying the rapid flutter in my chest and doing my best to clear my mind in the process. This is the moment of truth—I need to find a way to learn what his father knows about Darley but keep the truth about the place a secre
t at the same time. “You know I spent the day with my Darley friends, right?”
“Right…”
“Well, we’ve kind of been thinking that we’d like to know more about our pasts. Like, how the people at Darley found and adopted us, what our mothers were like, that stuff.”
“Can’t you just ask your dad?”
“I mean, sure, I can, but some of the others don’t have that option. Plus, my mom and dad were just kids, and they didn’t keep in touch, so he doesn’t really know much about the place I was born.”
“Saint Catherine’s House, right?”
I nod, dry in the mouth. “Your dad talks to you about his investigations?”
“A little. He’s always mumbling about one thing or another, half buried in files. I could hear a lot more, probably, but I tune him out most of the time.” Jude’s gaze holds on to mine, asking questions there aren’t answers to. None he can have, anyway. “Some government organization owns Saint Catherine’s, according to him. One he’s never heard of before and can’t trace, but you know he thinks the government’s behind everything.”
Maybe Mr. Greene is right, in this case. When the Cavies kick around ideas about who would be interested in kids like us, or in enhancing our powers, the government’s at the top of every list.
“I’d like to hear about what he’s learned about Darley that’s not on the news. What made him go out there and how he found it in the first place.” I’m trying hard not to sound too eager, too ignorant of the place I called home for seventeen years and claim to have emerged from unscathed. It’s not going so well, but Jude doesn’t seem particularly suspicious. Maybe my curiosity is normal, given the shrouded truth we were fed all these years.
“Sure. I mean, I’ll ask him, but I’m betting he’ll jump at the chance to meet you. I can’t promise he’ll be appropriate, or that he won’t ask you a hundred questions in the span of three minutes, but it’s your call.”
“I really appreciate it.” Figuring out the right questions will take some critical thinking, but maybe Mole can help.
