The City of Mirrors

by Justin Cronin

  Perhaps a time would come when it would feel right to share this with the others. On that day, she would lead them to the boat and show them what she had discovered. But not just yet. For now—like her journals and the story they told—it would be her secret, this message from the past, engraved upon the transom of a derelict lifeboat.

  BERGENSFJORD

  OSLO, NORWAY

  88

  Carter held his breath as long as he could. Bubbles rose around his face; his lungs were screaming for air. The world above seemed miles away, though in fact it was only a few feet. Finally he could endure it no longer. He pushed off and zoomed to the surface, exploding into the summer sunshine.

  “Do it again, Anthony!”

  Haley was clinging to his back. She was wearing a pink two-piece suit and cobalt-blue goggles that made her look like an enormous bug.

  “All right,” he laughed, “just give me a second. Besides, it’s Riley’s turn.”

  Haley’s sister was sitting on the pool deck, dangling her feet in the water. Her bathing suit was one piece, green, with a flouncy skirt and a single plastic daisy appliquéd onto one shoulder strap; she was wearing orange water wings. Carter could toss her into the water for hours without her getting bored.

  “Again! Again!” demanded Haley.

  Rachel walked toward them from the garden. She was dressed in shorts and a white T-shirt streaked with dirt; on her head, a broad straw hat. In one gloved hand she held a pair of shears, in the other a basket of freshly cut flowers of various types and colors.

  “Girls, let Anthony catch his breath.”

  “I don’t mind,” Carter said. He was clinging to the side. “It’s no bother.”

  “See?” said Haley. “He says he doesn’t mind.”

  “That’s because he’s being polite.” Rachel removed her gloves and dropped them into the basket. Her face shone with sweat and sun. “How about some lunch?”

  “What do we have?” Haley asked.

  “Let me think.” Her mother frowned theatrically. “Hot dogs?”

  “Yay! Hot dogs!”

  Rachel broke into a smile. “I guess that decides it. Hot dogs it shall be. Do you want one, Anthony?”

  He nodded. “I can always take a hot dog.”

  She returned to the house. Carter climbed from the pool and got towels for himself and the girls.

  “Can we swim more?” Haley asked, as he was rubbing her hair. It was blond, with flecks of a copper color. Riley’s was a soft, heathery brown, quite long. She liked to wear it in pigtails when she swam.

  “Depends on what your mama says. Maybe after lunch.”

  She made her eyes grow wide. That was the kind of girl she was, always putting on a show to get what she wanted. It was the funniest thing. “If you say yes, she’ll have to say it, too.”

  “Don’t work that way, you know that. We’ll just have to see.”

  He squeezed the last of the water from her hair, sent the two of them off to play, and sat at the wrought-iron table to catch his breath and watch. There were toys all over the yard—Barbies, stuffed animals, a brightly colored plastic play set Haley was too big for but still liked to fool with, the two of them pretending it was other things, such as the counter at a store. Haley had gone off in one direction, her sister in another.

  “Look!” Riley yelled. “I found a toad!”

  She was crouched over the path by the garden gate.

  “Is that right?” Carter said. “You go on and bring that over here and let me have a look.”

  She walked to the patio with cupped palms extended before her, her big sister following.

  “Now, that there is one handsome toad,” Carter declared. The creature, a mottled tan color, was breathing rapidly, loose skin flapping along its sides.

  “I think it’s disgusting,” Haley said with a sour face.

  “Can I keep him?” Riley asked. “I want to name him Pedro.”

  “Pedro,” Carter repeated with slow nod. “Sounds like a fine name. Now, of course,” he went on, “he may already got one. That’s something to consider. Something he goes by with the other toads.”

  The little girl’s face pinched with a frown. “But toads don’t have names.”

  “Now, how you know? Do you speak toad?”

  “That’s silly,” the older girl stated. She was tugging at the bottom of her suit. “Don’t listen to him, Riley.”

  Carter leaned forward in his chair and raised a finger, drawing their attention to his face. “I’m going to tell you something true now, both of you,” he said. “And that is this: everything got a name. It’s got a way to know itself. That’s an important lesson in life.”

  The smaller girl stared at him. “Trees?”

  “Sure,” he replied.

  “Flowers?”

  “Trees, flowers, animals. Everything living.”

  Haley looked at him askance. “You’re making this up.”

  Carter smiled. “Not in the least. Grown folks know things, you’ll see.”

  “I still want to keep him,” Riley insisted.

  “Maybe so. And I’m sure Mr. Toad would like that just fine. But a toad belongs in the grass, with the other toads who know him. Plus, your mama would pitch a fit she knew I let you keep him.”

  “I told you,” Haley moaned.

  Carter sat back. “You two go on now. You can play with him a bit if you like, but leave him be after that.”

  They scampered away. Carter rose to put on his shirt and sat back down. The sun was mild on his face in the dappled shade of the live oaks; from far away, he heard a quiet wash of traffic. A few minutes passed before Rachel came out the back door, bearing a tray of the promised hot dogs. Riley’s had ketchup and cheese, Haley’s mustard; Carter’s had all three. For herself, Rachel had made a salad. She returned to the kitchen and came back out with paper plates and a bag of chips, then once more with drinks: milk for the girls, a pitcher of tea for the grown-ups.

  “Riley found a toad,” Carter remarked. “Wanted to keep it as a pet.”

  Rachel put the hot dogs onto plates and laid out napkins. “Of course she did. I’m assuming you said no.” She looked up and raised her voice. “Girls, come for lunch!”

  They ate their hot dogs and chips and drank their tea and milk. Afterward, cherry popsicles for dessert. By the time they finished, the girls were starting to fade. Usually Riley took a nap after lunch; Haley would put up a fuss but wasn’t too old for one, especially after the morning they’d had, hours and hours of playing in the pool in the hot sun. With promises of more swimming later, they ushered the girls into the house, Carter carrying Riley, who was already half asleep. In the girls’ bedroom, he passed her off to Rachel, who removed Riley’s damp suit, replaced it with a T-shirt and underpants, and tucked her into bed. Haley was already under the covers.

  “Now, I want you two to sleep,” Rachel said from the door. “No fooling around.” She closed the door with a quiet click. “Come to think of it,” she said, “I could go for a nap myself.”

  Carter nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. Girls just about wore me out.”

  In the bedroom, he traded his bathing suit for an old pair of shorts he liked, soft from laundering, and lay down on top of the comforter. Rachel moved in beside him. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. Her hair had a clean, sweet smell he loved. It was just about the nicest thing there was.

  “You know,” she said softly, “I was thinking.”

  “What’s that now?”

  She shrugged against his chest. “Just how wonderful this morning was. The garden was so beautiful.”

  Carter pulled her tighter against him to say he thought the same.

  “I could do this forever,” she said.

  Forever was what they had. Soon her breathing steadied, long and low, like waves upon a placid shore. Its rhythm moved into him in a soft current, taking him with her.

  What happiness, thought Carter, and closed his eyes. What happiness at l
ast.

  XIV

  The Garden by the Sea

  343 A.V.

  This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,

  May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.

  —SHAKESPEARE, ROMEO AND JULIET

  89

  She had chosen a spot in sight of the river. The earth was softer here, but that was not the only reason. As dawn broke over the ridgeline, Amy began to dig. The river was low, as it always was in summer; mist floated atop the water like smoke. She dug first to the calls of birds, then, as the heat built, to the stillness spreading over the land.

  Stopping now and then to rest, she finished at midday. At the river’s edge she splashed her face and cupped her palms to drink. She was sweating profusely in the heat. For a time she sat on a rock to gather herself, her shovel resting above her on the bank. In the shallows she detected the shapes of trout, tucked behind rocks. Protected from the current, they held themselves in place with small flicks of their tails, lying in wait for the insects that washed downstream to their open mouths.

  The body was swathed in a sheet. Amy used a wooden bier and ropes, tackled to a sturdy tree limb, to lower it. Her thoughts were ordered and calm; she’d had years to prepare for this moment. But at the first pattering of soil upon the shroud, she experienced a rush of emotion, an upwelling of feeling she had no name for. It seemed like many things at once; it came not from her mind but from a deeper place, almost physical. Tears mixed with the perspiration streaming down her face. One shovelful at a time, the body disappeared, becoming one with the earth.

  She tamped the surface and knelt by the grave. She would erect no marker; the proper memorial would be made in due course. Perhaps an hour passed; she possessed no sense of time, nor had the need to. Her heart felt heavy and full. As the sun touched the line of the hills, she pressed one palm to the freshly turned earth.

  “Goodbye, my love,” she said.

  Peter had died, as he had long believed he would, on a summer afternoon. Four nights ago, he had failed to return to the house. This had happened before, when his wanderings took him too far to make it back before first light. But when he didn’t appear the next night, Amy went to look for him. She found him curled beneath an overhang on the east side of the mesa, his body wedged tightly against the rocks. He was only partially conscious. His breathing was quick and thin, his skin pallid, his hands dry and cold. She wrapped him in a blanket and lifted him into her arms; the lightness of his body shocked her. She carried him back to the house and upstairs to the bedroom. She had already closed the shutters. She laid him in the bed and got in next to him, holding him as he slept, and the next morning she sensed something, a presence. Death had entered the house. He seemed to experience no pain, just a kind of fading. He did not regain awareness of his surroundings, or did not seem to. The hours passed. She would not leave him, not for a moment. At midday, his breathing slowed until it was barely perceptible. Amy waited. A moment came when she realized he had slipped away.

  Now, her task complete, she returned to the house and made a simple dinner for herself. She tidied the kitchen and put her dishes away. The quiet of eternity had settled over the rooms. Darkness came on. The stars wheeled above the silent land. She had preparations to make, but these could wait until morning. She did not want to go upstairs—those days were over. She bedded down on the sofa, curled beneath a blanket, and soon was fast asleep.

  Dawn’s soft glow in the windows awakened her. Standing on the porch, she took measure of the day, then returned to the house to prepare her supplies. She had fashioned a simple pack with a wooden frame she could carry on her back. Into this went the things for her journey: a blanket, some simple tools, extra clothing, food for a couple of days, a plate and cup, a tarp, a coil of rope, a sharp knife, bottles of water. That which she lacked or had failed to anticipate, she could find along the way. Upstairs, she washed and dressed. In the mirror above the stand, she saw her face. She, too, had aged. She might have been a woman of forty, perhaps forty-five. Ribbons of gray, almost white, threaded through her long hair. Crinkles fanned from the corners of her eyes; her lips had thinned and paled, becoming almost colorless. How much time would go by before this face, her face, was observed by another living soul? Would this even happen, or would she pass from the world unseen?

  In the living room, Amy sat at the piano. Its existence was nothing she’d ever been able to account for; when she and Peter had arrived at the farmstead, all those years ago, the piano was waiting, a gift from beyond. Every night, Amy played it; the music was the force that summoned Peter home. Now, placing her hands above the keys, she waited for something to come to her; with a quiet chord she began, letting her hands tell her where to go. Bright notes filled the house. Within the song’s phrases lay all that she felt. It passed through her in waves, rising and falling, circling and returning, a language of pure emotion. I never grow tired of it, Peter always told her. He would stand behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders with the gentlest touch to feel the music as she did, as a force that flowed from within. I could listen to you play forever, Amy.

  Every song is a love song, she thought. Every song is for you.

  She came to the end. Her hands stilled above the keys; the last notes hovered, faded, and were gone. So, the moment of parting. A lump had lodged in her throat. She cast her eyes a final time about the room. It was just a room, like any other—simple furnishings, a hearth blackened with long use, candles on the tables, books—but it meant vastly more. It meant everything. Here they had lived.

  She rose, put on her pack, and strode out the door, not looking back.

  She reached California in the fall. First the deserts, scorched by the sun, then mountains emerged from the haze, their great blue backs surging above the arid valley. Two more days in sight of them and she began to climb. The temperature declined; cool green woodlands waited at the top. Beneath her, the valleys and mountains of the high Mojave undulated in the haze. The wind was fierce and dry on her face.

  At length, the Colony Wall appeared. It was still towering in places, in others crumbled to ruin, barriers of vegetation poking through the rubble. Amy scrambled over the detritus and made her way to the center of town. Great trees stood where none had grown before; most of the buildings were gone, collapsed into their foundations. Yet a handful of the larger ones remained. She came to the structure that had been known as the Sanctuary. The roof had caved in; the building was a shell. She mounted the steps to look through a window that had, miraculously, remained unbroken. It was caked with grime; she used a dampened cloth to make a small porthole and cupped her eyes to the glass. Open to the sky, the interior had become a forest.

  It took her some time to get her bearings, but eventually she located the stone. It had settled into the earth somewhat; many of the names inscribed into its face had washed away to mere depressions, scarcely legible. Still, she was able to discern certain surnames. Fisher. Wilson. Donadio. Jaxon.

  Evening was approaching. She removed her pack and withdrew her tools: chisels and gouges of various sizes, picks, and two hammers, one large, one small. For a time she sat on the ground, surveying the stone. Her eyes traveled over the stoic surface as she planned her attack. She could have waited until morning, but the moment seemed right. She selected a spot, took up her chisel and hammer, and began.

  She finished on the morning of the third day. Her hands were bloody and raw. The sun was high in the sky as she stood back to examine her handiwork. The quality of the inscription was unpracticed but, on the whole, better than she’d hoped. She slept that day and all the next night and, in the morning, refreshed, packed her camp and descended the mountain. She headed west, first away from the sun and then toward it. The land was empty, without history, devoid of life. The days passed in windswept silence, until, one morning, Amy heard the sea. On the air was the scent of flowers. The sound, a low roaring, expanded; suddenly the Pacific appeared. Its blue expanse seemed infinite; she felt as if she were
beholding an entire planet. White-tipped waves crashed upon the shore. She made her way through banks of wild roses and eelgrass down to the wide beach at the water’s edge. She felt uneasy but also consumed by a sudden urge. She stripped off her pack and then her clothes and sandals. As the first wave broke across her body, its power nearly knocked her off her feet; a second claimed her, and rather than resist, she dove down into the surging water. She could no longer touch the bottom—it had happened that fast. She experienced no fear, only a wild, startled joy. It was as if she had rediscovered a wholly natural condition in which she was connected to the forces of creation. The water was wonderfully cold and salty. With the barest motions of her arms and legs, she could keep herself afloat. She allowed herself to bob freely in the swells, then dove down again. Beneath the surface she opened her eyes but could see virtually nothing, just vague shapes; she rolled her body to look up. Brilliant sunshine ricocheted off the face of the water, making a kind of halo. Gazing at this heavenly light, she held her breath as long as she could, hidden in this unseen world beneath the waves.

  She decided to remain awhile. Every morning she swam, each time moving farther out. She was not testing her resolve; rather, she was waiting for a new impulse to emerge. Her body felt clean and strong, her mind rinsed of all care. She was entering a new phase of life. She spent her days just sitting and watching the waves or taking long walks up and down the sandy expanse. Her needs were simple and few; she discovered a grove of oranges and, near that, great banks of blackberries, and these were what she ate. She missed Peter, but the feeling was not the same as missing something she had lost. He was gone but would always be a part of her.