(Don't You) Forget About Me (14 page)

NINE

BY THE TIME I REACH MY FRONT PORCH, THE SUN IS
setting, I am exhausted, and Piper is not any less gone than she has been these past four years. In the glass of the front door, I catch a glimpse of a girl in a yellow rain slicker, and for a split second my heart leaps, thinking Piper has found her way home. The illusion pops like a soap bubble, but still I walk toward the door slowly, keeping my eyes on the reflection, trying to hold on to the idea of it being this easy to find Piper once more.

Reaching out, I press my fingers to the glass, meeting the cold mirror image. “One and the same,” I whisper. The girl-in-the-glass's lips move with mine, and I wish like hell I had a forget-me-not right now, so that I could pretend it really was Piper and have a tiny bit of comfort to take to bed with me. But since my conversation with Foote, it's become increasingly clear that my memory problems are making things more complicated than they need to be. How can I ever get closer to finding Piper when I have to keep stopping to have someone explain what happened to me yesterday? And then there are all the days much further in the past that are big, gaping black holes that will eventually need to be filled in too.

Not tonight, though.

I peel the rain slicker off and leave it hanging on the porch railing, hoping it might lure Piper home.

The stairs up to my room feel steeper than usual. I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling until exhaustion pulls my eyelids closed. Even then, though, I don't really sleep. Too many unanswered questions chase through my head and keep sleep away. Sometime later I hear footsteps padding down the hallway and then pausing outside my door. I sit up, my heart pounding.

“Piper?” I whisper into the darkness.

“Sky?” a tiny voice answers.

I fall back onto my bed. “Go away, Wills.”

My door creaks open. The hall light behind him casts his shadow into my room. “I had a bad dream.”

“It happens.” Even as I say this, I slide to the far side of my bed, pulling the covers down. Wills runs across my room and jumps in beside me. He wiggles around like a puppy until his warm little body is pressed against mine.

“Tell me a story, Sky.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Tell me a fourth-year story.”

I snort. “I thought you were having nightmares.”

This stumps him for a moment. A very short moment. “Not about that. Please, Sky.” His tiny fingertips trace the scar that runs along my left arm. “Tell me 'bout the lightning year.”

I push Wills so hard that he rolls right out of bed, landing in a pile of blankets with a thump. For several minutes the only sound in the room is my too-heavy breathing, as I try to control the shaking. “We don't tell that story,” I finally say.

Wills says nothing, and I half-expect him to return to his own bed. The kid's more determined than I give him credit for, though. He scrambles back into my bed, this time making sure to put a little more distance between us. “Tell me 'bout the year Piper lost her baby toes.”

I close my eyes, but sleep feels far away. An apology is on the tip of my tongue and my arms itch to pull Wills closer so that he is once again snuggled against my side. Instead, I start to talk. “Piper was eight that year, and I was four.”

“Like me!”

“Yeah, like you.” Except I didn't have Mom constantly at my side, waiting to wipe my nose for me. I don't say this out loud though. It feels too disloyal. Not to Mom, but to Piper. She was the one who was there when Mom wasn't.

“It was hot that year,” Wills says, prodding me.

“You want to tell it?”

Wills shifts next to me, and I can feel him considering it. He's heard it enough from Mom; I'm sure that he could. “No,” he finally says. “You.”

“Okay then. It was hot that year, just like it's been this year, except it was only March.”

“Global warming,” Wills breaks in.

I poke him with my elbow. “You don't even know what that means.”

“Do too. It's a house in Ozone that's making everything hotter.”

“No, that's not . . .” I stop, realizing I don't have any idea of how to explain global warming. “Well, it wasn't global warming that year. Everyone thought it was just freak weather, but later we realized it had been Franklin and Violet Foster the whole time. But that was at the end. At first, all we knew was that it was hot.”

“How hot was it?” Wills asks with a big smile on his face.

I sigh. “It was so hot Milly started serving all of her coffee frozen on a stick, and if you didn't finish it within five minutes it'd be running down your arm and dripping from your elbow. It was so hot that the power went out every twenty minutes. It was so hot Piper and I filled the bottom of the baby pool with ice and took turns sleeping in it at night. It was so hot that after two weeks, most people didn't even move anymore. Even sitting up made you hot. All the ice was gone and the power was permanently out. The water came burning hot out of the tap, but you drank it anyway because your tongue felt like it was covered in cement. The air was so heavy you felt it covering you like a winter coat. People died and their bodies began to rot and reek, and the whole town smelled like death, but no one moved them—it was too exhausting to even try. That's how hot it was.”

The smile has faded from Wills's face. This is not the way Mom tells the story. She has a way of making the danger and terror seem like something that happens to other people.

“I fell asleep. That seems like a good thing, but it was too hot to sleep. Piper knew that. She could see I wasn't truly sleeping, I was dying. She shook me awake and dragged me out of bed. It hurt to walk; it felt like we were moving through fire. Chance usually followed me everywhere I went, but that day he stayed where he was, lying on the floor by the front door. He didn't even wag his tail as I went by. Outside, the grass crumbled to dust beneath our feet. Dead birds littered the ground, and more fell from the trees. We didn't get very far before I fell too. Piper tried to pull me up, but she had used every last bit of energy by then and collapsed next to me. I don't know how long we lay there. It felt like a very long time. I could see the sun, burning hot between the tree branches above us. It seemed so angry, that sun. I kept trying to close my eyes against it, but every time I did, Piper slapped me until I opened them again.”

“And then,” Wills interrupts, “you felt the breeze.”

“No,” I snap back at him. “Not yet. It wasn't just that we were hot and then there was a breeze and everything was instantly better. We were dying. Every single one of us was slowly being cooked in that heat. It was killing us, but that wasn't even the worst part. The worst of it is that we were waiting to die, the same way you wait in line at the grocery store, impatiently waiting for it to be your turn. I wasn't old enough to understand, but I felt it. All I wanted to do was close my eyes and go somewhere cool. I would've gone that way too, long before the breeze ever came along, except that Piper kept me here. Every time her palm stung against my cheek, I could feel her telling me to stay alive. She willed me to live, and I think she may have even willed the weather to change.”

“You mean with powers?” Wills whispers the question, probably afraid I will snap at him again. Or maybe he already knows that speaking aloud of these things is not something that's done.

I suppose this would be a good opening for us to have Gardnerville's version of the birds-and-bees talk. I remember Piper explaining it all to me when I was even younger than Wills. I hadn't understood everything she said at the time. She told me that being a Gardner made you different, and as we got older that difference grew too, getting stronger. We weren't like the normal kids—but the normal kids didn't always stay normal either. With puberty came the possibility of inexplicable changes for everyone. But we Gardners were superpowered from the get-go. “That doesn't mean fourth years don't affect us. It's hormones, and we have those just like everyone else,” Piper had said. “They make everyone crazy. Sometimes you can fight it . . . and sometimes you can't.”

I don't say any of this to Wills though. Maybe because I can't tell it the same way that Piper did. I can't say that he might be able to fight it and not let it control him. And I can't promise that I will do the same. Everything I've seen tells me that the reformatory is my destiny just as it was Piper's. And I don't know of any reason that it won't eventually be Wills's as well.

“We should go to sleep,” I say, suddenly feeling incredibly tired once more.

“Noo-ooohh,” Wills whines.

“I'm tired.”

“But the story. The end. Please, Sky.”

“Fine.” I take a deep breath. “Then the breeze came. It tickled my toes, climbed up my spine, and breathed an icy-cool breath down my neck before coming to lick my nose. Piper felt it too. It gave us the strength to sit up and then it came again, stronger, and we stood and followed it. As we got to Salt Spring, the breeze grew stronger and stronger, until by the time we reached the water, there were gigantic waves crashing against the shore. Half the town had followed that wonderfully cool wind to the same place, and we could feel the mist from the water, cold and refreshing on our baked skin. People who would go a mile out of their way to avoid even seeing the spring waded in without a second thought. No one could swim, but we all went as deep as we dared, and then bent to scoop the water up to reach the rest of our too-hot bodies.

“The water felt so good, goose bumps were a welcome novelty. We didn't notice when the waves slowed or when the water began to crackle. The chill came so quickly that the water froze right around us, trapping us inside ice as solid as cement blocks. Then the snow began to fall. Piper and I were lucky. We weren't in that deep. And she had a necklace GG had given her when she wasn't much older than me. It was a lion claw dipped in gold. GG said the oldest child always wore it. Piper never took it off. Ever. Except there, trapped in the ice, she did. There was a red mark all along her neck and at the place on her breastbone where the necklace had rested. It must've gotten so hot that its image was branded on her skin. Piper took that claw and she used it to chip away at the ice until I was freed. I wanted to help get her out then, but she told me to run to all the houses and get blankets and boiling water. So I did.”

“You left Piper in the ice?” Wills asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“She told me to.”

“But didn't you want to stay and help her?”

“What do you think, Wills? Of course I did. But because I went to get help, lots of people survived who might've died. Lots of people who might've lost their feet lost only a few toes. And Piper got herself out. I knew that she would. If you knew Piper, you would've known that too. Piper is unstoppable.”

“But—”

“Go to sleep.” Cutting Wills off, I make my voice as hard as the ice that held me and Piper and so many others captive. I know what he was going to say. That either the train or the reformatory had stopped Piper. And that when she got out, she wouldn't be the same. He's seen enough of the reformed to know. I hope, though, that he will be able to meet his oldest sister sooner than planned. The more my mind clears, the more I get the feeling that a plan already exists to get Piper out—I just need to remember exactly what that plan is. Then he will see how Piper is different. Then he will finally have a story of his own to tell.

“Sleep.” This time I say it softer and gently tuck the blankets around Wills.

He curls onto his side, and the curve of his back brings the delicate bones of his spine pressing through his thin T-shirt. “Night, Sky.”

“Good night, Wills.”

He falls asleep almost immediately. I usually end up spending forget-me-not-free nights staring into the darkness. When Wills is nearby, though, I get this calm sort of peaceful feeling. It's been that way ever since he was a baby. I also cry whenever he gets hurt. Sometimes even louder than him. My guess is that he can manipulate emotions, like the way Dad did. I don't tell him this, though. If it were up to me, he'd never find out what he can do, because I can't imagine anything worse than for him to turn out like his father.

Now I gently sling an arm around Wills so his small body settles onto the mattress once more. With him anchored solidly beside me, I, too, at last fall asleep.

PAPA DON'T PREACH

Twelve Years Ago

I WATCHED AS DAD WALKED INTO THE INFIRMARY.
He scanned the room, searching for us. You were lying on one of the cots set up for anyone who had frostbite or heat stroke. Both of your feet were wrapped in bandages. I had been sitting on a cold metal chair, swinging my legs because they didn't reach the floor. I froze when he walked in.

I'd seen other kids my age run to their fathers, screaming, “Daddy!” It puzzled me; my instinct had always been to run to him and then kick him in the shins. He was made of secrets and lies, many more than I could count at four years old, but that wasn't what made me hate him. He mostly ignored me, but sometimes—as if he was testing me—he'd stare at me and I would feel my heart squeeze like he was trying to pull it from my chest. The whole time he'd have that oily smile on his face, but behind it his teeth were clenched.

Now he walked straight past me, and took the chair on the other side of the cot.

“It's going to be okay,” he said, taking your hand in his own.

His saying it made it feel true—to you at least. “Okay,” you agreed weakly.

I felt invisible whenever Dad was around. I didn't care about not getting his attention. What I really hated was being so easily forgotten by you.

The doctor, seeing Dad, immediately came over to talk with him. I wanted to sit beside you again, and retell the day's story. I didn't have the tape recorder on me, but sometimes we liked to tell a story one or two times without recording, just so we could get everything right before we put it on tape.

I only half listened as the doctor explained about your injuries. He talked about third-degree frostbite and how a few lost toes shouldn't slow you down. Then the doctor called you a hero and Dad agreed and they shook hands, congratulating each other on something they had nothing to do with. You stared past them, your eyes meeting mine, a wry smile pulling at the corners of your lips.

At last we were allowed to leave. Dad cradled you in his arms like a baby. I followed several feet in your wake. When we reached the house, he carried you all the way up to your bedroom. I watched as he gently lowered you onto your bed and then turned to shut the door behind him—right in my face. There was no lock, but even so, I didn't dare come in. Instead, I stood in the hallway, listening to the rumble of Dad's voice and your softer humming responses. I couldn't help but wonder what you were both saying.

I waited for what felt like a very long time, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Finally, I heard the floorboards on the other side of the door creak, and a moment later the door opened. Dad brushed past me without acknowledging my presence. I watched his back as he descended the stairs and for a moment thought of rushing at him, pushing him down. With any luck, he'd break his neck.

The thought shocked me. It wasn't the first time I'd had a hateful thought about Dad, but it was the first time I'd wished him dead. It was the first time I'd imagined it and felt a flash of satisfaction. I could've killed him a thousand times, Piper, but I didn't because of you. I knew that hurting him would hurt you too.

“Sky?” you called from inside your room.

“Right here.” I walked in and flopped onto the bed beside you. The spot was warm, as if someone else had recently been lying there.

“What did Dad say?” I asked.

You shook your head.

“Piper,” I whined out of habit, but a part of me was relieved. I could sense just enough of the secret to know that it was several shades darker than any I'd encountered thus far.

“No.” You turned from where you'd been staring up at the ceiling to meet my eyes, then said, “Forget it.” Just like that, the secret that had been slinking closer and closer drifted away. “That isn't part of the story.” You handed me the tape recorder.

I took it. “What story?” I asked, trying to remember what I'd missed.

“Start with two weeks ago,” you said, ignoring my question. “On the day when you woke up and said it was so hot it felt like your bones were turning into noodles.”

“Cooked noodles,” I corrected.

Then I cleared my throat, pressed Record, and began to tell our story. I thought it was the true and complete story of our lives that we put onto those tapes; it's only now, looking back, that I realize how much you might have left out.