doesn’t come in here, but you do. Your scent is there, on the edge of
the bed. You must come in to look at the pictures. They’re the only things
without dust on them.”
I notice Gabe’s flushing cheeks and realize my mistake. Quantum queen of tact. Shit .
“Oh, yeah, well,” he murmurs. “Sure, you have the enhanced
senses.” He looks away, and I see his real face again. The gold-flecked eyes
are shy and shamed. His smile is gone, replaced by a taunt mouth that puts too
many creases into his skin. He looks so much like his father.
“Gabe, I’m sorry,” I say.
“No, it’s fine,” he lies. “It’s just that I don’t really
remember when…when we were happy, so sometimes I like to come up here and…I
don’t know.”
“It’s okay,” I say brilliantly.
“Yeah,” he steps back from the doorway and shoves his hands
in his pockets. “If you need anything, just knock. Okay, well, goodnight Maya.”
“Goodnight,” I say. Gabe closes the door. I sit on the edge
of the bed and listen to his steps retreat down the hall.
Chapter 20
I spend the first hour of the night committing the pictures
to memory, tracing each face with my finger again and again, staring into the
vacant eyes of my long lost family and imagining character traits. Canton would
have Gabe’s laugh — a free, warm chuckle. He teases. Diana is more serious. She
can turn her face into granite like Tarren. Her voice goes all soft and
dangerous when she is angry. The little girl, Tammy, is boisterous and
aggressive. Gabe is a gurgling infant, the happy kind that never cries. But
what to make of Tarren? Every picture displays his down-turned head and little
balled fists.
The night feels too long, and I’m not tired. I take my time
circling the room, running my eyes over every surface. I peek into the closet
and find it empty. Nothing under the bed either. I re-read each title on the
bookshelf and notice an empty wedge of space between The
Illiad and The Aeneid.
I sit on the bed and don’t think about Ryan, don’t replay
his death over and over so many times that that it runs smooth as a DVD in my
head, don’t craft and decorate exotic Grand-murdering fantasies and especially
don’t linger on sall the questions huddled together in my mind, heavy and
unbearable. But I don’t cry. That part really is true.
Instead, I calmly pick at my wrists, only it’s hardly any
use at all. New skin has already knitted neatly over the gashes, and I’m sure
this is another angel thing. Or whatever I am now. I slide my fingers through
my short hair. The prickly ends remind me that this is real, but I don’t really
need any more convincing. The song lingers inside me; that need for something
that tugs and taunts all day long and roars like chalkboard scratches at night.
And it’s still night, and I’m still not tired, and I can’t
take this not thinking about stuff anymore. So I slip out the window, glad for
the cold air. Pulling myself up and over onto the roof is surprisingly easy,
though I know I wouldn’t have been able to do it before. I’m thinking it might
be peaceful up here, but it isn’t. The property around the house devolves into
thick woods. My attention is drawn by leaping sparks of energy all about me and
the scents of so many new things. My body responds, hands growing hot and
glowing. Yes, I hold them out in front of me and see that the tips of my
fingers give off a pale hedge of light.
It’s time to know what I can do. Carpe
noctem.
The trees hold out their limbs for me, and I leap, adjusting
intuitively to land cat soft onto the nearest one. I pounce onto another branch
then clutch one above and swing myself easily around and up onto my feet. I
take a deep breath and exhale slow with reverence. This is an entirely new
body, acrobatic and strong like an elite gymnast. Graceful. Intuitive. Swift.
So many new adjectives that I can rightfully commandeer.
Thrilling. Terrifying. Powerful. The cleave of monster
the bed. You must come in to look at the pictures. They’re the only things
without dust on them.”
I notice Gabe’s flushing cheeks and realize my mistake. Quantum queen of tact. Shit .
“Oh, yeah, well,” he murmurs. “Sure, you have the enhanced
senses.” He looks away, and I see his real face again. The gold-flecked eyes
are shy and shamed. His smile is gone, replaced by a taunt mouth that puts too
many creases into his skin. He looks so much like his father.
“Gabe, I’m sorry,” I say.
“No, it’s fine,” he lies. “It’s just that I don’t really
remember when…when we were happy, so sometimes I like to come up here and…I
don’t know.”
“It’s okay,” I say brilliantly.
“Yeah,” he steps back from the doorway and shoves his hands
in his pockets. “If you need anything, just knock. Okay, well, goodnight Maya.”
“Goodnight,” I say. Gabe closes the door. I sit on the edge
of the bed and listen to his steps retreat down the hall.
Chapter 20
I spend the first hour of the night committing the pictures
to memory, tracing each face with my finger again and again, staring into the
vacant eyes of my long lost family and imagining character traits. Canton would
have Gabe’s laugh — a free, warm chuckle. He teases. Diana is more serious. She
can turn her face into granite like Tarren. Her voice goes all soft and
dangerous when she is angry. The little girl, Tammy, is boisterous and
aggressive. Gabe is a gurgling infant, the happy kind that never cries. But
what to make of Tarren? Every picture displays his down-turned head and little
balled fists.
The night feels too long, and I’m not tired. I take my time
circling the room, running my eyes over every surface. I peek into the closet
and find it empty. Nothing under the bed either. I re-read each title on the
bookshelf and notice an empty wedge of space between The
Illiad and The Aeneid.
I sit on the bed and don’t think about Ryan, don’t replay
his death over and over so many times that that it runs smooth as a DVD in my
head, don’t craft and decorate exotic Grand-murdering fantasies and especially
don’t linger on sall the questions huddled together in my mind, heavy and
unbearable. But I don’t cry. That part really is true.
Instead, I calmly pick at my wrists, only it’s hardly any
use at all. New skin has already knitted neatly over the gashes, and I’m sure
this is another angel thing. Or whatever I am now. I slide my fingers through
my short hair. The prickly ends remind me that this is real, but I don’t really
need any more convincing. The song lingers inside me; that need for something
that tugs and taunts all day long and roars like chalkboard scratches at night.
And it’s still night, and I’m still not tired, and I can’t
take this not thinking about stuff anymore. So I slip out the window, glad for
the cold air. Pulling myself up and over onto the roof is surprisingly easy,
though I know I wouldn’t have been able to do it before. I’m thinking it might
be peaceful up here, but it isn’t. The property around the house devolves into
thick woods. My attention is drawn by leaping sparks of energy all about me and
the scents of so many new things. My body responds, hands growing hot and
glowing. Yes, I hold them out in front of me and see that the tips of my
fingers give off a pale hedge of light.
It’s time to know what I can do. Carpe
noctem.
The trees hold out their limbs for me, and I leap, adjusting
intuitively to land cat soft onto the nearest one. I pounce onto another branch
then clutch one above and swing myself easily around and up onto my feet. I
take a deep breath and exhale slow with reverence. This is an entirely new
body, acrobatic and strong like an elite gymnast. Graceful. Intuitive. Swift.
So many new adjectives that I can rightfully commandeer.
Thrilling. Terrifying. Powerful. The cleave of monster
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