“Luke, can you give me a ride back to the dorm?” Gabe asked. “Michael was supposed to take me.”
“Sorry, man, I got a date,” Luke said, helping himself to a second piece of pie.
“Why don’t you sleep at home tonight?” Mom asked.
Gabe fidgeted. “I should really get back.”
I was pretty sure the only reason he was taking summer classes was to avoid living at home.
“I’ll drive you, then,” Mom offered. “Help me clear up.”
Once they were gone, I followed Luke outside to the weatherworn Adirondack chairs. The sun had dipped below the trees and the breeze had picked up. The summer scent of wildflowers and river water drifted through the air.
“Don’t you have to go?” I asked.
“I’ve got a few minutes,” he said. “What really happened to make that skunk spray you?”
For a second, I thought I might tell him. I
needed to get it off my chest — how the tugs were pulling at me lately, how hard they’d become to resist, how one tug in particular was haunting me at night. But I’d promised Zach I wouldn’t tell. And besides, what if I did and then it turned out he wasn’t real? No, I had to be sure first. And I had to prove to myself that I could get this whole situation back under control.
“It was no big deal,” I said. “Mom came down to get me so we could go visit Gran and MK. She surprised it. I happened to be closest when it sprayed.” That sounded believable.
“How are they?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Gran was totally out of her head
and MK was like — out of the world, just… gone. Mom had to lecture the staff about making sure MK isn’t taking Gran’s meds. Mom was so embarrassed.” I wondered again why embarrassment was the first thing that came to mind. Why wasn’t she mad at the crappy care they were getting? Why wasn’t she horrified, depressed, pissed-the-hell-off first and embarrassed later?
“She showing any signs?” Luke asked.
“Of what?”
“You know, following in their footsteps.”
“No! She’s young yet.” She couldn’t go too. I’d be the only one left. An owl hooted in the distance.
“MK was young,” Luke said, breaking bits off a twig.
“That’s different,” I insisted.
He shrugged.
“Luke?”
“Yeah.”
“You think I’ll end up there?” I asked, as a shudder passed through my body.
“Those walls couldn’t hold you,” he said smiling, then whopped me on the head. “You’re it!” And he ran into the woods.
I jumped up and chased after him, laughing. Not many twenty-year-olds still enjoyed a good game of tag.
The tug woke me from dream sleep, which could only mean the wound was bad. I tossed and turned, reminding myself what Mom had drilled into my head: that my sanity was no less important than their health, that helping them would steal my sensibility, that they were dangerous and carried diseases, that this sensitivity made me a freak. But it was no good, the pull on my insides sent sparks through my body. I couldn’t be still. I paced around my room, hoping the creature might move on, get farther away where I wouldn’t be able to feel it so strongly.
And then it occurred to me that it might be Zach. I stopped, listeni
ng inside to how this tug felt — like burning all over mixed with a strange sort of numbness. I slipped on a sweatshirt and flip-flops and snuck into the kitchen where I wrapped up an extra large piece of chocolate pie in a Tupperware. I stuck it in my bag along with a napkin, a fork, and a thermos of cold milk.
I ran down the trail, through the boulder circle, and into the deadened wood. But when I came closer to The Hollow, I slowed, not wanting to spook him. I tried not to get my hopes up. If it wasn’t Zach, it might be a badly wounded animal, who might be afraid and ready to lash out.
I moved toward the sequoia and saw him lying on The Hollow itself, looking like your typical brooding teenager, except for the scars.
“Zach?” I called.
He shot up.
“It’s me, Sera,” I said.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I thought you might like some pie,” I said, taking it out of my bag and setting it down within his reach.
“How’d you know I’d be here?”
I shrugged, not sure that I should tell him it was his pain that drew me. “Go ahead,” I encouraged. “It’s chocolate.”
“Chocolate
pie
?” he asked, sounding tortured.
“Yeah,” I said, “my mom’s a baker. Do you know the bakery in town?”
He looked at me, then back at the pie, but didn’t respond. He ate slowly, savoring every mouthful. “I’ve never tasted anything that good ever,” he said when he’d finished.
His tug had opened a gaping hole in my chest, this weird sensation that my insides were on the outsides.
“How come you don’t wear shoes?” I asked, catching him off-guard.
He tucked his feet under his legs.
I offered him the thermos of milk.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Milk,” I said.
He reached out to take it, then stopped to pull his sweatshirt sleeves down over his hands
, turning the scarred side of his face away from me. He drank the milk down in one long swallow, while I tried not to stare at his mostly-covered hands, wondering how they got so messed up. “I don’t have any,” he said.
“Any what?” I asked, having lost track of what we were talking about.
“Shoes,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
I wondered if he was homeless. Who doesn’t have a single pair of shoes? Maybe I could find an old pair one of the boys had left behind at the house. “Do you know what size?” I asked him.
He shook his head, looking away. “I should go,” he said.
“Why?” I asked. “No one’s even awake.”
“You are,” he said. “And… you should stay away. This is a bad idea.” The worry in his face lit up in the moonlight.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” I said.
“Not
of
you,” he said, shaking his head, “
for
you.” And then he backed away.
“Don’t run,” I begged. My mind raced, wondering if somehow he knew about the pull to heal and how dangerous it could be for me to give in to it. “I won’t do anything, I promise.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, looking confused.
I caught myself. “What did
you
mean — when you said you were afraid for me?”
He looked away. “I’m not someone you should be around.”
“Yeah, you are,” I said softly, wondering if he was really other than what he seemed, and then wondering, too, if he might be a sign of a psychotic break, a figment of my imagination.
“I’m evil,” he said, “like prince of darkness kind of stuff. You should stay away. And… I shouldn’t be here.” He stood to go.
I shivered. “I don’t understand,” I said, moving closer to him even though it made my whole body hurt. “Why shouldn’t you be here? How could you be evil?” My mind started imagining all sorts of horrible things he might have done. I knew nothing about him. He could be the axe murderer for all I knew.
“I never should’ve talked to you,” he said.
“You’re not making any sense,” I said. “Won’t you come back and hang out again?”
“Just… forget you ever met me,” he replied. And then he loped off through the woods.
In the morning, I dug through my brothers’ closets and found a couple pairs of old shoes — flip-flops in Gabe’s room, hiking boots in Luke’s, and sandals in Michael’s. I stuck them in a box and dragged them down to The Hollow, leaving them by the oak Zach sometimes ducked behind. I hoped he’d be back — that he wouldn’t stay away for good. It was crazy to be hoping to spend more time with someone who referred to himself as the prince of darkness. But for some reason, that was exactly what I was doing —
hoping
— instead of doing what I should’ve been doing, which was being terrified of the idea of being alone with him.
I hiked up toward town. The traffic light was on the blink again.
George McGraw plopped his meaty hand on my shoulder, scaring the crap out of me. “Did you hear?” he asked.
I shook my head, turned down my music.
“They’re saying Myra Clay’s ghost was at it again. Melody McDowell heard a great crashing sound over at Myra’s in the middle of the night. They think it may be Old Abe expressing his displeasure at the way Myra’s been attending Bennett’s unusual church services. Can’t say I blame him. Those snakes give me the heebie jeebies. What say we go see what they’re saying over in the bakery?”
Saying or serving,
is what I was thinking. George could eat baked goods all day. But I was right behind him. I always loved stories of Myra Clay’s ghost. They’d been entertaining me since I first started school.
The bakery was buzzing. I slipped behind the counter to help Mom, as the line was surprisingly long. The place reeked of almonds and coffee.
“Thank you, baby,” she said, as I started filling orders.
I looked across the room and saw why the bakery had become such a hotspot. Myra Clay herself was in the back corner holding court. As usual, she was drinking a hot cup of tea, but not indulging in any of Mom’s creations.
Chocolate is the devil’s food and sweets are for the weak,
was what she usually said when she ordered her tea or a dry bagel.
“It most certainly was not a raccoon or rat up in my attic. I take great pride in the cleanliness of my house. I can assure you there are no rodents!” Myra said. Her hands shredded a napkin under the table.
“Besides,” Melody added, “the sound I heard was too big for a raccoon to make. Something crashed over there and it was something big. I do believe Abe was giving Myra a piece of his mind this time.” She winked at George.
“Mind your own business, Miss Busy Body,” Myra snapped. “If my Abraham were visiting, it would surely be to tell me how much he misses me. In fact
, this morning when I came downstairs our wedding photo on the piano was turned to face the breakfast nook, and I’m certain I didn’t leave it like that yesterday. I always have it facing the couch.” She fingered her gray hair, covering the thinning spots.
Astrid pulled up a chair. “He should have passed over by now, Myra. Something just isn’t right about this. A ghost coming by for all these years should have found peace by now.”
Myra’s face tightened. “He simply can’t live without me, even in the afterworld.” She laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes. And her hands kept twisting and tearing the napkin she held under the table. “Shouldn’t you be at home working on your interweb astrology mumbo jumbo?”
“It’s an online astrological charting service,” Astrid snapped.
But I stopped listening to the conversation then. It was the napkin shredding that caught my attention. Myra Clay was hiding something. It was one of those revelations that hit you out of nowhere and you just know.
“Are you helping or not?” Mom nudged me and pointed to a tray of sticky buns that needed glazing. The icing was marzipan today, which explained the overpowering scent of almonds.
I got back to work. But my mind was going somewhere totally new. Myra Clay was hiding something. There was a crash at her place in the middle of the night. She was telling her usual stories. But today I didn’t believe them. I doubted if anyone actually believed her. I had been gullible all these years because I'd wanted to believe it. But the grown-ups were teasing her. What did they imagine was the truth? That Myra was having some kind of rendezvous? That she’d been drunk and stumbling around?
I had a different idea. Because I knew of one absolute real possibility of what or rather
who
might have caused a crashing sound in the middle of the night. It had to be Zach. I didn’t know why he’d be hiding out at Myra Clay’s. But if she wasn’t being truthful, then did that mean she knew? The thought made the hairs on my arms prickle.
“Good Lord, Seraphina, if you want to help, could you at least
try
to pay attention to what you’re doing?” Mom said.
I looked down at the mess I’d made with the glaze, the way it was glopped on top of the buns and oozing all over the worktable. “Sorry,” I muttered, trying to fix it.
“Let me,” Mom said, taking the icing bag from my hand and shooing me in the direction of the customers.
When things finally settled, I washed down the worktable, swept the floor, and poured Mom a cup of coffee with steamed milk.
“Thanks, doll,” she said, sitting down at an empty table.
I sat beside her. “When did Myra Clay’s ghost start coming?” I asked her softly.
She looked at me funny. “You don’t still believe all that, do you?”
“When did she start claiming it I mean?”
She looked up at the ceiling. “Not long after Abe passed, I guess. Just the ramblings of a lonely old woman. A way to get a little attention.”