“And the wall?” Morgan thought of the place where students had congregated, and where so many lives had been lost.
“Gone. There’s a memorial pedestal with a large bronze plaque. And with, um—” Paige stopped.
“The names of those killed,” Morgan finished matter-of-factly. “What else could they put there?” She held on to her mother’s elbow as people brushed past. She felt the heat of their bodies. “Show me,” she said. “I want to touch his name.”
Morgan smoothed her hands, almost as useful as her eyes after weeks of blindness, over the contours of the memorial. She formed an image of its shape in her mind, found the cool flat surface of the bronze’s slanted front and felt the raised letters one by one. “Mr. Simmons,” she said after a moment. She read off the names, for she had memorized them all by now. “ ‘Trent Caparella’ …” Tears clogged her throat. She’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t cry in public. A broken vow.
“You look good,” Roth whispered into her ear.
She turned toward him, surprised because she hadn’t felt him come alongside of her. “Oh, hi.”
Paige said, “Place looks pretty good, doesn’t it?”
“Brand-new,” Roth said.
“Who’s here?” Morgan asked Roth.
“Media, and tons of kids, parents, some police.”
“Police?”
“Crowd watchers. Guess they don’t want anything to spoil the grand unveiling.”
Morgan heard a bitter undertone in his voice. She knew that he’d been questioned and she felt sorry for him. He’d only helped people. The real bombers were still out there, maybe even here today. For a moment fear tingled up her back.
Roth clasped Morgan’s hand in his. “Can I take over the tour?” he asked her mother.
“Mom? Would you mind?” Morgan asked.
“Fine,” Paige said. “I see the mayor and I want to talk to him.”
Roth’s hand felt warm in hers, and she wished she could see him. Crazy how his presence could light up her day.
“How have you been?”
“All right,” she said. “Going to therapy. Hasn’t helped yet.”
“But you’re returning to school?”
“I am. I’m the president, you know.” She gave a wry smile. “Met with the new principal, Mrs. Mecham, on Friday. She’s nice and knows about tragedy: she lost two sons in the Iraq War.”
They kept walking, and Morgan realized they had left the atrium and were going down a hallway, because the noise grew dimmer. Roth stopped. “Know where you are?”
Morgan turned her head slowly, sniffed the air. “Lockers by the smell of it.”
He laughed. “Very good. You’re standing in front of your locker.”
She reached out, put the flat of her palm on the cold hard metal. Her fingers bounced the combination lock. A new realization dawned. “I—I won’t be able to see to open it.”
“I’m sure they’ll let you lock it any way you want to. And …” Roth paused, then added, “I’ll be your eyes whenever you want. I mean, if you want me to be.”
Tears threatened her again. What had she been thinking, that she could return to school? She was stupid! Returning totally blind was impossible.
“Hey, hey.” Roth cupped her face in his hands. “You can do this. People will help. I’ll help … your friends … Kelli, all of us will help.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. There were no guarantees her sight would return, and the line between dependency and helplessness was a balancing act. Morgan needed to distinguish between them if she was going to live inside of darkness, perhaps for a long, long time.
Mrs. Mecham started Monday morning with a rally in the school gym, calling it a “new day” and a “fresh start.” Morgan sat in a chair beside the new principal in the center of the gym. She heard the rustle of feet, the subdued voices of kids in the bleachers. No one was whistling or yelling or calling out to others. This was a somber time and everyone sensed it. Cameras clicked away around them, but the school board had banned television crews from the gym—only digital cameras were allowed. Cell phones had been confiscated for the event. “A private gathering that I won’t let be exploited,” Mrs. Mecham had said.
Mrs. Mecham spoke about the victims as honorable, made some uplifting remarks, then turned to Morgan and offered the microphone to her. Morgan stood, amid hushed whispers. Her heart was thudding and her mouth was cotton dry, but still she stood, shook out her red-tipped cane and tapped it on the floor. “Trust me,” she said. “Anyone gets out of line, I know how to use this.”
Her levity allowed everyone to laugh, which broke the tension. She heard cameras click. She continued. “We all feel the holes left by the faculty and students we lost. Not only the ones who died but also the ones who left Edison because of what happened. We are what’s left.” She took a breath. “Good for us.”
A couple of shouts of approval burst from the bleachers.
“So that means we’re in this together. We’re going to finish this school year. Seniors will graduate. The rest of you will move on to the next class level. It’s going to happen.”
More positive cheers came from the bleachers.
“I know I’m blind. But I’m still your class president. I will stay this year. I will finish my term and my studies. The bomb may have flattened our atrium, but it won’t flatten my resolve.” Her heart beat even harder and her voice rose. “I will not be broken,” she said loudly. “We will not be broken.” She said each word with volume and deliberation. She raised the mike into the air and shouted, “Not broken!”
The chant started instantly, swelled into a triumphant shout as hundreds of voices joined in, followed by foot stomping and wild applause. Morgan’s throat swelled with emotion and tears filled her eyes. Edison would not be broken.
• • •
Morgan’s speech was a rousing success. Afterward, when Roth was walking her to her class, with her holding his elbow, he said, “Great speech. In fact, I felt something stir up inside of me when everyone started cheering.”
“School spirit?” she said.
“Indigestion, probably.” She pinched him hard. “Ow!”
“Don’t mess with me, mister.”
He laughed and so did she, a feeling of elation filling her.
But if school was shaking out in her favor, her therapy sessions weren’t. Dr. Peg worked with her every week, but she could get no nearer to the source of the trigger that had rendered her blind. Together she and Dr. Peg revisited Morgan’s memories of the days before and the day of the explosion. Morgan strained to recall every detail, because remembering the sequence of events was the key to unlocking her mind.
“You saw something terrible, something that shut you down,” Dr. Peg told her, coaxing Morgan to pull out every detail inside her head for examination.
Morgan “saw” images, flashes of scenes, from the fateful day. She felt Trent holding her close to keep her warm, the softness of his down-filled jacket against her cheek, even smelled the nylon fabric. She remembered glancing over his shoulder and seeing a backpack under the staircase. The FBI had found scraps of the backpack and the time-sensitive detonator that had been used in the bomb. She remembered being curious about the abandoned backpack, and the flash of bright light as it exploded. She remembered everything except the one thing that held the key to her eyesight.
“It may be a series of things,” Dr. Peg said. “Your sight may return gradually or suddenly. The more we expose your memories, the more likely we are of success.”
For Morgan, “exposing memories” brought on horrific headaches that often incapacitated her for the rest of a day or evening. But she continued her therapy because she didn’t want to be blind for the rest of her life.
She had plenty of help at school too. Roth had been right about that. Different seniors took on the task of walking her from class to class, getting her seated and her recorder set correctly. Roth drove her to and from school every day, and Kelli he
lped Morgan navigate the cafeteria at lunch. Mark did not return to Edison, choosing instead to attend a small private school. Kelli told Morgan, “He can’t face coming back. The wheelchair and all. I mean, he was a star once.”
“It would be hard for him,” Morgan said.
“I miss him … you know, the old Mark. I think he should have stayed at Edison. Kids would have been nice to him. We stayed.”
Morgan clasped Kelli’s arm, a show of understanding and friendship. “Dr. Peg says we all handle bad things differently. Look at me—my brain shut down my vision. Do you ever go visit him?”
“Not anymore. It hurts us both too much. Best to move on. I’ve a lot to push out of my mind. For me, the situation is a mixed blessing in some ways.”
Morgan heard the sadness in Kelli’s voice and ached with her over her losses. The girls never talked about the pregnancy.
“Do you think whoever planted that bomb will ever be caught?” Kelli asked.
“God, I hope so. Hard to think someone could walk away scot-free.”
“But it wasn’t Roth? Like the blogs are saying?”
“It wasn’t Roth.”
Kelli sighed. “He likes you, you know.”
“Maybe. I think we’re just all wound up together. His case, Mom defending him, him pulling me from the rubble, and now feeling like he should help me in some way,” Morgan mused. “Mixed up together. Like lines blurring together.”
“I see the way he looks at you,” Kelli said, confident of her analysis. “His eyes follow you everywhere.”
Morgan tried to dismiss Kelli’s words, but all that came to her was a long-ago night in the moonlight when Roth had undone her hair. Another life. “I need to get to class,” Morgan said, rising from her cafeteria chair. “Are you my Seeing Eye dog?”
“Woof-woof,” Kelli said, and held out her arm to her friend.
They hadn’t been in school three weeks when Mrs. Mecham dismissed classes early due to an approaching blizzard. Roth turned into Morgan’s driveway in near whiteout conditions, got them both inside. “Stay,” she said. “It’s too dangerous for you to drive. I hear the wind howling.”
Her house was empty and he really didn’t want to leave her alone. “You sure?”
“Mom and Dad are in Grand Rapids and I’ll bet they’re stuck too.”
In the kitchen, she pulled out her cell phone, called her mother. “I’m home,” she said.
“Good. The highway patrol just shut down the roads, so we’ll have to wait until the storm’s past. I hate for you to be by yourself.”
“A friend’s with me.”
“That’s a relief. You and Kelli take care of each other.”
Morgan didn’t bother to correct Paige’s assumption. “Will do.”
“Keep in touch as long as you can,” Paige said, but the cell service was already breaking up. Morgan flipped her phone closed.
“Whoops,” Roth said. “We just lost power. It’s going to get pretty cold in here.” He was glad to be staying, eager to be near her as long as possible.
“Not a problem,” Morgan said. “Help me gather some food and let’s go to the den. We have a fireplace and a gas log you can start with a butane lighter.”
Within twenty minutes, Roth had built them a fortress on the floor from sofa pillows and blankets, and Morgan had stocked it with bread, peanut butter, fruit, crackers and bags of chips. The fire was glowing and heating the room nicely. “Caveman digs,” he told Morgan, snuggling her into the nest.
“I want my bed pillow. And Bingo. And my iPod.”
He brought all three from upstairs. “Really cold up there.”
She stretched out on her tummy, her face to the fireplace, savoring the warmth on her skin. “We have candles in the kitchen. I can’t see, but you may not like sitting with me in the dark.”
“Fire’s good enough,” he said. His fingers itched to touch her, but she seemed oblivious to his nearness.
She wasn’t. She wished she understood her attraction to him. At the beginning of autumn, when he’d hardly been on her radar and she’d gradually grown aware of his covert looks in her direction, she’d been wary and unsettled. He had a reputation for trouble, but perversely, as time went on, she liked having him rake her over with his surly but sexy gaze. Later, when she got to know him, she discovered he wasn’t like his reputation. He was rough-edged, moody and guarded, decorated with body art, but also thoughtful and caring, and undeniably sexy and attractive to her. And now they were alone together. She told herself to be careful.
“Peanut butter cracker?” he asked.
“Not yet.” She turned on her iPod. “Good until the battery charge dies,” she said as music floated into the room.
They talked for a while, the force of the wind rattling windows now and then. The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed six times. Roth was amazed at how quickly the time had passed with her. “You seem to be making a good comeback,” he said.
“I act better than I feel. I’m really scared, you know.”
“I don’t believe it. Morgan Frierson isn’t scared of anything.”
“You have more faith in me than I do.”
He gave up the battle to keep his hands off of her and reached over and smoothed a tendril of hair off her face. Her eyes were wide, unseeing, reflecting the firelight. The den was quiet except for soft music and the snap of the fire. “I get what it’s like to be scared,” he said.
Her skin trembled at his touch. “Now I don’t believe you. You could have been killed going into the school to help us.”
“Knee-jerk reaction. I had overdue library books. Didn’t want to face any fines.”
She giggled. “Most people would be afraid of explosions. Everyone else ran.”
“I’ve seen explosions before,” he said, without meaning to say it.
“What do you mean?”
The story of his orphaning spilled out of him, haltingly at first, then more quickly as he told her what it was like to watch his parents die. “I was locked in the car, but I could feel the heat through the window. The fire melted the paint on the outside of the car. No one should die that way.”
Morgan was stunned by his story, left speechless as the images came alive in her imagination. For her the pictures were like a horrific Hollywood movie; for him they were terrifyingly real. Her heart hurt for him, for the helpless little boy seeing a holocaust destroy his parents. She turned herself onto her back, put up her hand and touched his face.
“Hey,” he said, catching her hand in his. “You’re not going to get all soggy on me, are you? All that happened years ago.”
She ignored his words. “You were so young. What happened to you after … after they died?”
“Foster homes. Two were all right, one not so much. Max eventually got me when he got out of the service. Rough going until Carla came along. She holds everything together.”
Roth’s life had been so different from Morgan’s, and she saw the differences plain as day. She didn’t need Dr. Peg to help her understand why Roth had been in trouble so much, or why he wore his “bad boy” image like a shield. He felt safe behind it.
He said, “And so now what I have to deal with are the police and the FBI. What lousy luck.”
“Who else knows your story?”
He thought about it. Liza, because they’d been friends since sixth grade, and, of course, “the system” that had shuffled him around like an unwanted object. “I keep it to myself. There’s hardly anyone I’ve told.”
She lay quietly, listening to Roth’s breathing. She could tell he was leaning over her, his face very close to hers. Her breath quickened. Warmth from the fire and blankets made her feel languid and soft. Fearful of her own emotions at the moment, she sat up.
He swung his leg over her lap so that he was balancing on his knees. He cupped her face between his hands. “May I kiss you?”
She froze like a statue, her heart a pounding runaway train. No one had ever asked permission before. Thinki
ng about it, she realized that she’d never kissed anyone except Trent. Her memory of him rose like a ghost. And yet … and yet … “Yes.” The word slid out like the single note of a song. She wanted him to hold her. She wanted Roth’s mouth on hers more than anything.
His kiss came softly, his lips full and tender, pressing hers and exploring the shape and contours of her mouth. His kiss was different from Trent’s. Trent had held her tightly, pressed her mouth harder, often urgently, as if he wanted to consume her. Trent had made her sizzle. Roth made her melt. His tongue explored hers and she felt as though they would fuse into a single being. His hands remained on her face. She arched toward him, craving to have his body lean into hers.
He pulled away, touched his forehead to hers. She was certain her skin would burn him, but instead he only sucked in deep breaths and ran his thumbs along her cheeks.
Roth was shaken by the kiss. Perhaps because he’d waited for so long before tasting it. Morgan was the girl he’d wanted for years, and yet he felt no triumph in the moment. All the kiss had done was make him want her more.
“We have a whole night ahead of us, Roth,” she whispered, suddenly frightened. She had managed to damp down the flames she’d felt when she’d been with Trent. They’d set limits such as never being alone together for too long. They’d reveled in touching and tasting and heavy petting, always stopping short of abandonment. With Roth, Morgan knew it was different. She wasn’t sure she could control what was happening inside her with him. Her longings when they were with each other were different. Need, not curiosity, drove her. And now, alone and without barriers … Her teeth chattered and she began to tremble.
Roth caught the scent of her fear and steadied himself. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe she was thinking of, and comparing him to, Trent. He didn’t want that. He lowered her onto the pillows, leaned down and kissed her closed eyes. “I’ll take whatever you want to give me,” he said. “Nothing more.”
She wanted to give him all of herself. She was lonely and sad and confused, all at the same time. And burning with need. “I … don’t … know….”
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