The Vision (17 page)

chapter 27

I found Zander by his locker first thing Monday morning. We'd texted on Sunday, but he hadn't returned my calls. I knew he needed space so it didn't bother me. Much.

“You have a good day yesterday?” I asked, resting my back against the locker beside his.

Zander pulled a book from the top shelf. “Yeah.” He shrugged. “Nothing special, just hung out. You?”

“I worked. We had a new body in.”

I waited for the jokes or sarcasm, but Zander was preoccupied, busy with his coat and books.

“I had a nice time Saturday,” I said. I fiddled with my backpack's zipper, wondering if I should say anything about the ride home. It felt so huge, hanging between us. “Zander, about—”

He held up a hand, had been waiting for this. “Let's talk about it later, Cassie. Please.” His voice was calm but firm.

“Of course.” I nodded, kicking myself. This was clearly not the time or place.

Zander smiled. “You free after school?”

I didn't even protest when Zander suggested the mall, happily surprised he wasn't going to avoid talking about Saturday. Probing his past wouldn't be easy for either of us, but it was just the opening I'd been looking for. I felt closer to him already. So what if I'd started the conversation about his dad? His willingness to continue it told me he really did care about me. And trust me. Enough to open up the fragile parts of himself.

I'd left my gloves in the car and relished the touch of our palms as we walked hand in hand past Sears, toward the theater. I looked for the pimply kid, but he wasn't at the ticket window. On break, I thought briefly, ready to ask Zander if he wanted to see the new movie this weekend. Then I saw him—the pimply kid—and did a double-take, staring as he walked across the color-flecked carpet, waving to a coworker on his way for a soda or fries or a horrible accident.

He had the mark.

Zander must have felt me tense up. He followed my gaze. “So it's today.” A satisfied smile spread across his face. “Finally.”

It gelled, slowly at first, like metal inching within range of a magnet. Why we'd been coming to the mall so often, always passing the theater. Why he'd been so ready to come today, even if it meant a dreaded conversation.

None of it had been coincidence.

I stared at Zander, accusation all over my face.

“What?” he demanded. Zander glanced at the marked boy innocently. “You mean him?”

“You knew. Every day we came here. It wasn't to buy a shirt or see a movie or go to that new restaurant. It was for him.”

Zander nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Correct.”

I was stunned. “Why didn't you tell me? I thought we were doing this together.”

“I wasn't sure I could trust you.”

“What?
You
weren't sure you could trust
me
? How can you say that? You're the one who just tricked me into telling you about the mark!”

He turned to face me, hands on his hips. “So if I'd told you his time was close and I needed to know when, you'd have come? Helped?”

“Of course.”

“Really, Cassie?” He lifted an eyebrow skeptically. “Are you sure?”

No. Not when I knew what Zander would do without stopping to think or question. I wasn't sure at all.

He nodded, able to read everything on my face and in the silence. “I think we've had this conversation before, Cassie. On our way to that woman in the alley. The one you couldn't get over, even though it was clear there wasn't a person in the world who needed our help more.
That's
why I didn't tell you.”

Zander turned sharply on his heel then, a faint squeal of rubber on the tile, ready to go after the boy.

I caught his arm. “What are you doing?” I hissed. “You're not going to—”

“I'm going to follow him, Cassie. Come with me or don't, but I have a job to do.”

He pulled his arm free and strode toward the boy. I had no choice but to follow.

In less than a minute we were behind him, just two paces back. He wore baggy gray cargos and a dark tee that hung loose on his bony shoulders. He walked slowly, with a slight limp, pitching to his left side where his heavy boots were unevenly scuffed.

He was going to die today.

It was a jarring thought that I'd never get used to no matter how many times I saw the mark. Zander kept a steady distance behind him, not moving closer, but giving no room for his prey to escape. I stayed right beside Zander, with no idea how to stop him or if I should.

The boy was my age, at most. Had his whole life ahead of him. He could grow up to cure AIDS or be a world leader or business pioneer. Or a school shooter or rapist or drug dealer.

I knew nothing about him and had no time to learn.

He glanced lazily into the stores he passed, totally oblivious to the fact that Death was right behind him. I willed him to stay in the open, give me time to decide. I was sure Zander would need a little privacy or at least a chance to get close to the kid in a way that wouldn't attract attention.

Was this boy's life worth risking—no, say it—
taking
someone else's for?

In the end, it was a Lego that helped me choose. The boy with the mark looked down, startled by the snap of plastic. He'd been peering in his wallet when it happened and when the man leaving the card store bumped into him, it flopped to the ground, cards and slips of paper scattering all around.

Zander stepped forward, but I darted in front of him, kneeling next to the kid.

“Thanks,” he said as I pushed some of the money his way. It probably seemed strange that I didn't hand it to him, but I couldn't bring myself to actually touch him, dip my hand within the field of the mark.

“Are you here alone?” I asked, low enough that I hoped Zander wouldn't hear.

The boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

I could feel Zander behind me, edging closer. I shifted to the left, boxing him out.

“I just …” I floundered for a lie. “I thought I saw you with someone I knew earlier.”

“My mom?” He flipped over his wallet and the second picture was of a woman with this boy, maybe a year or two ago. It was just the two of them, a posed portrait like you might get at Sears. Just him and her.

It made me think of the one on Jackson Kennit's nightstand, and that plus the fact that this slouchy, too-cool-looking kid actually kept a picture of his mom in his wallet, was all it took.

“Listen,” I said, cutting my eyes to the side, looking for Zander. “You're in danger. Not from me. And I'm not crazy. But I
am
psychic. I don't know what the danger is, I can only warn you to be careful. Have your mom come get you as soon as she can. Don't do anything dangerous today.” I looked over my shoulder, ready to face Zander's wrath, but he was nowhere around. “In the meantime, stay in the open, somewhere with people. And keep away from the guy who was with me. He's tall with dark hair, wearing jeans and a black sweater.” I paused, trying to think if there was anything else, not quite able to say “it's going to be okay,” without knowing if it was true.

The boy stared at me, his eyes big and round, scared.

Good.

I stood, my knees weak. I was scared too, had no idea how Zander would react, but was pretty sure he wasn't going to be happy. I backed away, the kid still squatting and staring. I turned to walk down the store-lined hall but didn't get two steps before Zander grabbed my arm, pulling me into the restroom corridor nearby.

“What the fuck was that?” he hissed, his hand squeezing too tight.

“You're hurting me!” I pried his fingers off, shaking my arm and wincing. There would be bruises. Beyond him, I could see the kid, gathering the rest of his things, looking left, then right, then back again. Flipping open his phone. Dialing.

Zander followed my gaze. “You think you did him a favor, Cassie? You didn't. He's going to die anyway. Maybe even tomorrow. When I won't be there to help him.” Zander's face was flushed with anger, his fists tight. “And what about the other person? The one you killed by saving him? Does it feel good to know you're responsible for that? Does it?” He shook his head, fury clear in his furrowed brow. “Did you feel bad for him because he's just a kid?” He said the last part mockingly, singsong, his face contorted, almost ugly. “You are way too human,” he told me again, adding, “and in case you think that's a compliment, let me be clear. It's not.”

Zander spun on his heel and walked fiercely away, his footsteps sharp punctuation in the cold tiled hall.

I sagged against the wall, feeling sick. Then, startled by the thought that it wasn't over, that Zander could be going after him right now, I checked on the boy.

The mark was gone. Just like that.

I should have felt elated. There
was
a flat sort of joy, but I couldn't help thinking of what Zander had said about the other person. And worrying that he might still try something, not realizing that already his chance had passed. I darted to the hallway opening, looking left and right for Zander, but he was gone. Maybe he could feel it, too. That the boy's time was no longer today or any day near.

The boy had started walking and, as much for something to do as to protect him, I followed, staying far behind, out of sight. He did exactly as I'd said, keeping out of stores, going directly to the food court, sitting nervously at a table, his back to the wall. Good boy, I thought dully.

I sat too, watching the people pass, half expecting to see the mark having magically jumped to one of them, but of course that would be too convenient. I could imagine it, though. On that lady, pushing a stroller. What would become of her little girl if it were her? Or the man busily talking on his phone, a concerned look on his face. He might be a daddy too, or a son taking care of an elderly mother.

I rested my head in my hands, desperately rubbing my temples. Maybe Zander was right. Maybe I was too human.

I felt, more than saw, the boy stand and I looked up. His mother hurried over and he reached for her, relief making his body sag into her hug, not at all embarrassed at the way she cupped his face, palms on either cheek to stare into his eyes in the middle of the mall. She had a nurse's uniform on, her tag still pinned to her chest. It told me she'd dropped everything when she heard his voice.

She led him carefully to the door. He stayed unmarked even as they pushed out into the frigid and darkening night.

It might have been a full minute or two later that I noticed it, a tiny spark of feeling, warm and fighting for space against the gloom that usually came after seeing the mark. I had done something good. I had saved that boy. I had made that woman's life better, happier. Even more, I sensed that I had kept it livable.

It was impossible to prove or quantify, but deep down in my heart, in my conscience, I knew. I believed.

chapter 28

I texted Jack that night. I thought about it for a long time first, scrolling back over the notes I'd sent him these past months. A string of light, conversational updates, all unanswered. I'd failed him miserably, I knew now. I'd had a chance, more than one, to tell the truth, to open up to him the way I'd wanted Zander to open up to me. The difference was that Jack wasn't someone I'd just met a few months ago. He was part of my childhood, someone I knew was safe. And still I'd held back. Not just my secret, but my feelings. I owed it to him—and to myself—to tell him how I really felt. Just so he would know. Just in case.

“Life is hard. I miss you. I love you. Still.”

I pressed Send, my message floating out into the dark blue void of cyberspace.

I dreaded seeing Zander at school on Tuesday, but he wasn't there. I'd thought maybe he'd call or text or come by the apartment, the way he had after Lucy Edwards. Just to be sure I was okay. He didn't. It made me nervous. Scared, if you got right down to it. He was pissed, and it isn't good to have Death angry at you.

I went right home, turning down Liv's offers to come over or go to town.

“C'mon,” she said. “I finally have an afternoon free—no work, no tutor …” The tutor was the compromise she'd made with her parents to keep the job at TREND, which she loved. “And you're blowing me off ?”

“I can't, Liv,” I said, too tense to pretend I wasn't. “Soon. I promise.”

I jogged home, feeling safe only after I was shut inside, the door tightly locked behind me. Petra gave me a funny look.

“Everything okay?”

“Sure. It's just really cold out there,” I said, immediately changing the subject. “How's work?”

“You haven't been in for a while,” she said. “You've been a bit … distracted? But they're releasing Demetria this week.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

I had to get special permission to see her because guests were usually barred on release day, but they made an exception for me, Demetria's most faithful visitor.

It took me a minute to adjust to the way she looked. She was in her usual place on the sofa, but her hair was clean and freshly brushed, held neatly by a dark headband. She was wearing a gray sweater set, jeans, and ballet flats. She was prettier than I'd realized, beautiful even, in an innocent and sad-looking way, her eyes downcast, watching her hands. They lay loosely on her lap, palms down, so I couldn't see the marks I knew were there. The bandages were off and the cuts healed, but who knew about Demetria herself. Petra said she still hadn't spoken to her doctors, but had to be released anyway. Her family would just have to watch her carefully and continue intense therapy sessions. It sounded like a shaky prescription for success at best.

I lowered myself gently to a chair, knowing by now that my silence was no less welcome than my speech.

She wasn't like me, didn't see the mark or sense strangers' impending deaths. Her visions were nothing more than a fear of being followed by a guy she somehow knew was beyond the natural realm. Not so crazy, really. Except for the fact that she'd slit her wrists.

“Hi, Demetria,” I said finally. “It's me, Cassie.”

No response. Why should my final visit be any different?

I sighed. “I just wanted to say good-bye and thanks. You know, for letting me come and talk these past weeks.” As if she had a choice. “It's been helpful, I guess.”

Across the room, a patient shuffled to the doorway, mumbled something to the nurse, then shuffled out. His gown hung limp and crooked and I was glad that at least I'd gotten to see Demetria out of that pathetic thing. Even though something about the way she looked now tugged at my heart even more. She looked too close to normal for the stuff below the surface, whatever it was. Her doctors called it depression, Petra said. My mother's doctors had thought that too. They weren't wrong, but it was far from the whole story.

“I'm sorry about bringing up all the stuff I did,” I told Demetria. “About the mark and my problems.” I laughed a little. “That's probably the last thing you needed: having me come here and dump
my
baggage on
you
.”

Demetria raised her chin, letting her eyes drift past me, toward the doorway, then the window. I kept up my monologue.

“There are some strange and … well, sometimes scary things out there,” I told her. “You're not crazy.” I wondered if anyone had ever said those words to my mother—even if they weren't wholly true—or if they'd have made any difference.

I'd told Petra I was visiting Demetria to find closure with her. My mother. But not once had I actually looked at Demetria in that light. I tried it now, visualizing my mom sitting where Demetria sat, in this asylum. What might I have said to her if I'd ever gotten the chance? I tried to imagine how her voice had sounded, whether her hands had been soft like Demetria's looked or chapped like Nan's in winter, whether she'd liked to read or dance or sing or cook—but it was no good. Petra was right. This wasn't the way to find connection or closure. It only made me think of my mom mute like Demetria, too sad to talk. Too scared of her burden—the mark—to reenter the world. The way she'd spent the last years of her life.

Closure, if I found it, would be somewhere else. Maybe in finding a way to do what my mom hadn't been able to: live with the mark.

I stood, smoothing the folds of my coat, feeling like I should leave Demetria with some final words. Advice to help her with her visions or the coming baby or just the world in general. But what did I really have to offer? So I just told her, “Be careful. And good luck.”

I hitched my bag, ready to walk away, when she stood, so naturally that it startled me, like we were two friends at a normal place, having a normal conversation. She was taller than I was, had to look down to meet my startled eyes, hers totally clear and focused. “Good luck,” she said back.

It was a shock to hear her voice, higher and softer than I'd imagined, wispy like a cloud. Or an angel. I was so caught by her having actually spoken that it took a minute to process the words. Good luck. With the strange and scary things? With figuring out the mark? Or was she just parroting my last words to her with no meaning behind them?

“Thanks,” I whispered, watching as her eyes drifted away, intent seeming already gone from her consciousness, if it was ever there.