The Vision (16 page)

I was quiet in the car, but Zander didn't press for details. Maybe he knew that what had passed between his mother and me was something he didn't want to hear. I was torn about bringing it up. If he'd wanted me to know, he'd have told me himself. But maybe he couldn't, his dad's death the kind of memory buried so deeply it had to be called out.

Zander turned onto my street and pulled up to the curb out front, asking, “Is your roommate home?”

I nodded.

“Bummer.” His eyes were dark and mischievous. “I guess I'll have to say good night out here.”

My heart raced as he leaned toward me, the way it always did anticipating his touch, but my mind was still caught up in untangling the knot that was Zander, one more thread loosened, waiting for me to tug it free.

“Zander …”

He paused, one hand resting on my seat back, the other on the dash. Wariness flickered in his eyes, less than a foot from mine.

I took a deep breath. “Your mom told me about your father. That he died when you were ten.”

There was a subtle clenching of his jaw and a fierceness in his gaze that both dared me to go on and warned me not to. Somehow I choked out the question. “Did you …? Were you part of it?”

He let me hang for a minute. A
full
minute—so much longer than it sounds. I saw it tick by on the second hand of my watch, unable to hold his stare. And when he spoke, it wasn't an answer.

“Why are you so desperate to know stuff like this, Cassie? Things that aren't any of your business and can't help you—or me, for that matter? Why is it so hard for you to focus on what matters:
your
duty,
your
history. Not mine.”

Zander's voice started quietly but by the end had sharpened into a razor-hard coldness. I felt chastised and sore and a little scared by his intensity, which seemed to be teetering between fury and despair.

“I just want to know you, Zander,” I said quietly. “Understand you better.”

“I don't need you to know me like that.”

That stung. But I tried to ignore it. “I … I thought—and your mom did too—that it might help you to talk about it.”

He barked out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Dr. Phil.” Zander gritted his teeth and sat back, resting his head against the seat and running his hands through those lush curls, his eyes closed. Finally, he exhaled and brought his hands down, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“You want to know if I had a part in my father's death?” Zander asked, his voice low and even. “Yeah. I did. It's what I do, Cassie. My duty. I helped him go where he belonged. That's not a bad thing, you know.”

“It doesn't mean it's easy, Zander,” I said hesitantly. “Or that you have to feel good about it all the time.” He didn't answer. “Was he your first?”

He looked at me in disbelief, then dropped his eyes. “Yeah,” he said finally, without looking up. “He was. My first alone. He'd always done it with me before.”

I waited, but he didn't go on. “What happened?” I asked gently. “Did he know it was his day?”

He breathed in, exhaling slowly before answering. “I think so,” he said. “I knew. I told my mom. I didn't know what else to do. He'd always had the feeling about people at the same times and places I did, but this time he didn't say anything so I didn't know if I was wrong or if …”

“If he didn't want you to know?” I finished when Zander didn't continue.

“Yeah.” His voice was muffled and he wasn't looking at me.

I didn't ask more. The horror of what had likely happened unfolded like an awful bloom: his mom—enthusiastic advocate of his lineage and role—encouraging or helping or forcing her young son to do what he'd done. Executing his duty on an unwilling father and partner. He'd never quite made peace with it. Or probably with her, for that matter.

I reached over and gently stroked his hair, tucking the long pieces back behind his ear, the way he liked them. I wished I really were Dr. Phil so I'd know how to help Zander sift through his mess of emotions.

Zander looked up and I saw the shine of tears for just a second before he pulled me toward him, his hand firm on the back of my neck, his kiss urgent.

“Come with me,” he whispered, his hot breath tickling my ear, making me shiver.

“Where?”

“Anywhere. I don't care. I need you.”

I pulled back a little, wanting to see his eyes, but they were unreadable. “Zander …” I hesitated, hating to say no, partly because I wanted to go, partly because I believed him. He did need me. And it was thrilling and intoxicating. But it was also a little scary. Each step I took with him felt like walking on quicksand, sinking deeper into a morass that had an inexplicable and dangerous pull.

And then, just as suddenly, he shook his head, flashed an embarrassed little smile. “Forget it,” he said.

“I just … I'm not sure.” I felt terrible—foolish—for not responding when he'd finally done the thing I'd been asking him to: share something real of himself

He held up a hand. “It's okay, Cassie. Really.” He smiled again, sheepishly. “Bad timing.”

We looked at each other and I felt like maybe I should say something about his father and what he'd told me. But everything sounded way too trite in my head, like it would diminish what had happened and what he'd shared.

Instead I leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek, feeling the gentle scrape of his stubble and breathing deep to savor his earthy scent. “Thank you,” I whispered.

He smiled, a flicker of something in his expression making me pause for a second. And then it was gone. “See you tomorrow,” he said casually.

I walked to the apartment, feeling as I so often did with Zander: confused. One step forward, two back. I thought we'd finally made some headway, but I wasn't completely sure. He'd given me something real, but only because I'd dragged it out of him. Not because he wanted to. And I couldn't rid myself of the way his mom talked about us, how perfectly my ability complemented his. Did he care? Did he
want
to be with me? Or were we were bound like strangers in our own sort of arranged marriage?

I worried that with Zander, I might never really know.

chapter 26

It took a long time to fall asleep that night. I didn't know what to do about Zander, wished so much Calliope were less a proponent of his role and more a mother. She'd clearly thought Nan was wrong not to tell me about the mark. Mostly, I agreed, but I'd had sixteen years of friends and playgrounds and fun because she hadn't. Zander had had death and duty, to be executed no matter who or what was affected. I could only begin to imagine what a twisted mess his psyche was.

When my alarm went off at seven, I dragged myself out of bed wishing I'd had the guts to ignore Mr. Ludwig's call. He left a message while I was at Zander's; they'd gotten a body in, did I want to come help? No. But I owed it to him, having called in my last shift and two others before that.

I made it to the funeral home just after eight and came face-to-face with the last person I wanted to see: Ryan.

“Hi, Cassie.” His voice was chilly.

“Hey, Ryan. Are you working today?” Please, God, no.

He shook his head. “I just stopped in to grab a book I left yesterday.”

He turned to leave.

“Ryan, listen.” I sighed, not wanting to deal with this at all, but knowing if I didn't it would be a thousand times worse the next time I saw him. “I'm sorry about the other night. I didn't realize Zander was going to show up. I hope you're not mad that I stayed. He and I had some … well, things we needed to sort out.” And still do.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

I shrugged. “Sort of.”

“Sort of ?” Ryan frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Yes,” I admitted, not sure why I hadn't just come out with it in the first place. “He is.”

“Uh-huh.” Ryan picked up his backpack and slung it over a shoulder. “That's what I thought.” He paused by the door. “You know, you could have just told me, Cassie. I get the feeling there's a lot of stuff going on with you that you're not so up front about. Your choice.” He shrugged. “But I've never found that a very good way to live.”

He disappeared around the corner. I stood there, stung and surprised to feel the start of tears. You are not a bad person, I reassured myself. You're overreacting. Overtired.

Not how I wanted to begin this shift.

I think Mr. Ludwig was kind of surprised I actually showed up. “I'm glad to see you, Cassie.”

I nodded, slipping on the lightly powdered gloves I'd need to assist with the body. “Thanks, I'm sorry I'm late and that I've been out lately,” I said quickly, busying myself with rearranging the tools. “I haven't been feeling well. And then I had some stuff at school …”

“I understand,” he said in a way that told me he understood I wasn't being truthful, but was forgiven anyway.

“You do?”

It was his turn to nod. “I think I know part of the reason you've been … away.” He gestured for a scalpel. I passed it to him and he continued. “You don't need to worry today,” he said. “He's already left, but I know that Ryan Wilton has, let's say, an interest in you?” He glanced up, lifting those fine brows.

I blushed and Mr. Ludwig took it as confirmation. “Perhaps that has made you uncomfortable here?”

“It's not Ryan's fault,” I said.

“No,” he said, bending over the body to slice deftly through skin, “attraction is rarely within our control, especially for the young.”

Ugh. I did
not
want to talk about his, but I owed it to Ryan to clear his name. “I didn't mean that,” I clarified. “Ryan hasn't done anything wrong and I'm not uncomfortable around him.” The last part was a complete lie.

“Well, either way, he's not here today,” Mr. Ludwig said. “So you will not have to be comfortable or uncomfortable with him. Only me.” He flashed his merry smile.

I watched him concentrating on the body, parting the skin to insert the drain tube. This one was a four-pointer, meaning the embalming had to be done with not just one insertion at the neck but at various spots, usually because of some kind of circulatory problem. Studying the body on the table, I realized that I'd barely looked at it before now. Partly because I was exhausted and distracted by my ugly exchange with Ryan. But I'd carried on a normal conversation with my boss over this naked dead person without even noticing whether it was male or female. That would have been hard to believe two months ago.

“What happened to her?” I asked now.

“Stroke,” Mr. Ludwig answered immediately, used to the pattern of my inquiries. I smiled a little, definitely comfortable with him.

Still, I was hesitant to ask the next question, the most important one. I'd never asked before—not him or anyone else—though it had certainly been on my mind with every corpse we'd worked on.

“If you'd had the chance to save her,” I said slowly, “but if you saved her, someone else would die in her place—would you? Would you change her fate?”

My heart was pounding, but Mr. Ludwig didn't bat an eye. He didn't ask any of the side-tracking questions about treating illnesses or how you could know something like that or why I wanted to know. Instead, he tackled the question, the exact one I was asking.

“There are many things to think about with what we call fate,” he said. “If you can change it, perhaps it isn't really fate after all, is it?”

He adjusted the drain tube, then leaned back. “Part of the Japanese religion, my mother would tell you, is how things in this world and beyond are all interconnected.” He smiled. “I will give you an example: a woman milks a cow in a small barn, little more than a shed, early one morning. She leaves—maybe the baby cried or her husband called. Maybe she just has to use the bathroom. The cow knocks over the lantern. A fire starts. It hasn't rained much lately and it's a windy day so it spreads quickly. The local firemen worked late into the night before on another call. They're tired. They get lost trying to find the shed when a neighbor finally calls.”

The intercom buzzed, startling us both. Mr. Ludwig crossed to the door, answering it. It was Mr. Wilton, telling him he was leaving.

He returned to his spot by the counter and continued. “The Great Chicago Fire of 1871,” he said. “It burned for two days, destroyed four miles of downtown, and killed more than two hundred people.”

“Wow.”

He nodded. “Where did it go wrong? Who is to blame? Should the woman not have milked her cow? Should she not have answered the call of her family or nature, whatever caused the distraction?”

“No,” I said. “She shouldn't have left the lantern with the cow.”

“Maybe.” Mr. Ludwig nodded. “But would that even have mattered if only it had rained the day before or if someone had looked out their window earlier and noticed the fire?

“And then you look at the aftermath. Rebuilding the city created enormous growth. Arguably, it's
the
event that made Chicago a place of significance. Thousands of jobs were created, families fed. Maybe some were helped out of desperate situations or were able to see doctors when they might otherwise have been without money to do so. Certainly it made life better for generations after. Definitely
saved
lives somewhere along the way.”

He leaned down and shut off the machine, its whir dying to a whisper, then silence. Mr. Ludwig's words echoed off the metal table and counters of the prep room.

“My point is that every tragedy creates opportunity. And each death averted closes the door on an alternate possibility. Life has so many variables, good and bad, in every situation.” He rubbed his jaw speculatively. “What I mean to say is that I don't think it's possible to answer a question like that, Cassie.”

“But … what if you have to?”

Mr. Ludwig looked at me carefully, knowing I was pushing this “what if” more than usual, unsure why and thankfully not asking. “Then I think you can only do the best with what you know and can imagine.”

“Would you have warned the Great Fire lady not to leave the lantern?”

Mr. Ludwig smiled. “I knew you would ask that. And without giving it more thought than I have right here, my answer is yes. I think I would.”

“Why?”

“Because it is the certain versus the assumed but unconfirmed. I
know
two hundred and some people died in the Great Fire. I can
guess
that people were helped by it, but I don't know any specifics—who they were, how many of them, what might have happened to them otherwise. In the absence of that information, I'd have to try to save the ones I knew to be in danger.” He gestured to the tanks, ready to switch over the embalming fluid. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Mr. Ludwig knelt, unscrewing nozzles and hoses. I watched him absently, my mind traveling back over his words. Did it make sense to save all the certain dead? I didn't think so. Some didn't want to be saved and others shouldn't be. But what about the rest, the Jackson Kennits?

“So even though by saving those two hundred some you're dooming others, you'd still do it since you can't quantify the others?” Because I certainly couldn't quantify them; I would never know who'd been marked because of one I'd saved or who'd lived because I let Jackson Kennit die.

Mr. Ludwig looked up at me speculatively. “Is it
certain
that I'm dooming others?”

“No,” I answered slowly. “There's no way to know for sure. You just have to believe it. Or not.”

“Faith?”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

He nodded. “Then it depends how strong your faith is. In this case, my faith isn't strong enough to let the fire take its course. I'm not sure I believe an equal number would be helped significantly enough to justify the deaths.”

I thought about pressing on, asking what he'd do if it were one for one, but there wasn't much point. His phrasing—equal number—was enough, it told me where his reasoning would take him. It was the same place I always wound up—the impossible judgment of whose life was worth more.

So I asked something else instead. “Do you think that woman—the one with the cows—was damned for what she did?”

“Starting the fire?”

“Yes. Because of the people that died. I mean, it was her fault. She left the lantern.” I warned them. Or didn't.

Mr. Ludwig shrugged. “Most religions would say that if she repented, she'd be forgiven.”

“Yeah … I'm not really thinking about religion, I guess. Not in the strict, like, by-the-rules sense. More like …” I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but Mr. Ludwig did it for me.

“In her heart? Her own mind and soul?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Exactly.”

With some people you can read the workings of their mind on their face, but Mr. Ludwig wasn't like that. He was inscrutable, pursing his thin lips just a little, but otherwise his face remained as smooth and serene as when he was soothing mourners, acting as their calming touchstone. A soul guide of his own sort.

“I think,” he said finally, “that her intentions were blameless, Cassie. Even if the things she did were careless or stupid or even risky, they weren't done with malice. I know you're not asking about religion as a judge, but rather conscience. But I think they use the same sticks to measure: intent and repentance. Could she forgive herself ? Did she ever find peace in her heart? I don't know. I hope so. I think she deserved it.”

That was as far as I could take the conversation. It wasn't a complete answer, but it was the best I could hope for. It was all that was out there.