Transcendent (13 page)

“So that's the tour, Clemence,” Benjamin said, yanking my focus back to the rest of the room. “Any questions?”

I shook my head.

“I'll leave you to it, then,” he said, starting for the door. “There is staff at the desk around the clock if something comes up. And we check in on the sleeping quarters throughout the night, too, so don't be alarmed when you hear some coming and going.”

“Thank you,” I said, the words more of a whisper.

Benjamin closed the door behind him, leaving a silent void in his place. There was a moment with no movement, no sound, just me and Mikki standing in the middle of the room, a dozen eyes slanted in our direction. My direction, more specifically. The one who didn't belong.

“I'll be right across the room, so you wake me if you need anything at all, you hear?” Mikki dropped my hand
and shuffled over to one of the spare beds. Both cots next to hers were already occupied. There was an open bed next to Zoey's, and another at the farthest corner of the room. I claimed the one by Zoey, kicked off my old green-and-white Converse sneakers, lining them up neatly under the bed, and peeled back a thick pile of blankets. I tried not to wonder when they were last cleaned, tried not to think about how likely it was that lice or bedbugs were lying there in wait, hiding out before launching a sneak attack on their next victim. My skin crawled. I clenched my teeth and fought the urge to claw myself. It was in my head. It was all in my head.

There were a few dark stains on the bottom white sheet, dark stains that I couldn't think about, couldn't wonder why they were there, who they had come from. I pulled a yellow thermal blanket back up to the pillow, lay down on top of that instead.

Angry or not, I needed to at least text my parents for now. Otherwise, it would be a matter of time before they had the police on my trail, which would only make the whole situation infinitely worse. I pulled my phone from my purse and scanned through the most recent messages from my mom—each one increasingly anxious about my whereabouts.

I started typing:
I saw the vans. And your messages. I'm safe now, staying with friends from school. A brother and
sister. You don't know them, but it's fine. There are adults, don't worry.
I pressed send. There
were
adults, so it wasn't a total lie. Mikki for one. Benjamin and Mariela. And the other strangers sleeping all around me.

She tried calling, but I let it ring. There was no privacy. And besides that, I wasn't ready to talk. Not yet. Another text came through almost instantly.
I don't love that you're with people I don't know, not now. You can stay put for tonight because of the weather, but tomorrow I'm going to meet you at a hotel. I'll send details ASAP. Will book our flight then.

My response flew from my fingers.
I'm not going. I don't know what the solution is. But I'm not just going to hide away. I'll call you in the morning. Going to bed now.
I paused for a minute, debating, and then added,
Love you.
I loved them so much, even if I was angry. But it only made their betrayal that much worse.

I set my phone to silent and shoved it back in my purse, checking my wallet then to see exactly how much cash I had with me. Buried under a few receipts was a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. My stomach twisted into sharp knots. Twenty dollars. I regretted that terrible ten-dollar umbrella even more. I jammed the wallet back in my purse and pushed all of it under my pillow. I doubted anyone would try to steal it in my sleep, but still . . . just to be safe.

I peeled off my wet jacket and sweatshirt, hanging
them from hooks on the shelf above my head. There was still the issue of my T-shirt and my sopping, heavy jeans, but I couldn't bring myself to strip down any further. It would all just have to dry while I slept. I let my head fall against the big, lumpy pillow and pinched my eyes shut. The fluorescent lights above still flooded in, a blazing yellow and orange spiral swirling around the deep purple of my closed eyelids. I tried to move the spiral, control it, spin it in and out of focus. Anything to distract myself, to be less in this moment, less aware of the fear pulsing through my veins.

This is okay. I am okay. This will all be okay.
It would only be for tonight, and tomorrow I'd figure out the next piece of the plan.

I wished that Mikki were closer. I wished that I could crawl in bed next to her, curl myself up so that she could rock me to sleep.

The bedroom door opened and closed, and I listened as Zoey walked up next to me, just inches away, the squeak of her bed as she settled back in under her blankets. I kept my eyes closed tight, my arms pinned to my sides, one long, rigid line of tension from my toes to the top of my head. I took a deep breath, regretted it. The scent in the room, musty and stale, a fusion of sweat and grime and desperation, did little to calm my heightened senses. My ears suddenly seemed to have superhuman strength, every rustling blanket, every inhale and exhale, every shift
on the mattress sounding exaggerated and amplified, too close, too urgent. There was still a hum of voices, indecipherable murmurs mostly, but one woman was much louder, ranting about her deadbeat ex, her kids who weren't there. I couldn't imagine actually falling asleep like this. Would they turn the lights off at some point? Or was that too dangerous?

I heard the door open a second time, and Benjamin's subdued voice as he covered the basics about the sleeping quarters. It must be a new woman. The last bed. Had there been any others with her, others Benjamin had been forced to turn away? And if not—what if they came later in the night? Pounding on the door, drenched to the bone, forced to find shelter somewhere on the streets.

Because of me.

I shook the thought off, flipping myself over and burrowing my face into the pillow. Soon after the final woman settled in, the lights went down, a shudder and a blink. There was a hazy orange night-light by the door, casting off just enough glow that I could still make out each bed, each woman's silhouette. The chattering became more mellow.

A wave of exhaustion washed over me with the darkness. The adrenaline that had pushed me through the day was entirely gone now, leaving me so bone-achingly tired that sleep did seem possible after all.

I started slipping, swaying, falling. I saw my mom's
face, my dad's, Caleb's. I was reaching my arms out toward them, hoping they would pull me back in. And then, just as they were getting closer, just as I could practically feel Caleb's fingertips brushing against my own, a sound jolted me wide-awake.

A broken sob followed by sniffles and the rhythmic, rolling tremble of mattress springs. The sounds were close, very close. Zoey.

I sat up and crawled along my bed, peering around the edge of the screen. The blanket was pulled over Zoey's head, her body tucked into a tiny lump at the end of the bed, as close to the door as possible.

I didn't think first. I just reacted. I reached out—our beds were so close, I barely had to stretch—and rested my hand on her trembling back. I felt her muscles tense and stiffen below me. I sucked in my breath, waiting.

She didn't pull away, or jump up, rip my hand off, and scream at me to leave her alone. Instead, after a few moments passed, she let herself cry again, softer this time, more even and controlled.

We stayed like that, my palm rubbing circles on her back, slower and slower until finally she fell asleep, her breathing deep and calm. I frowned into the darkness, wondering what had happened in her life to bring her to this night, this place. And then, gradually, hand still resting on her back, I drifted off to sleep.

I
WOKE UP
the next morning with my arm dangling over the side of my bed and my feet resting on my pillow. Zoey was gone, her blanket smooth and tucked around the edges of the mattress, though a faded pink duffel bag still sat on her shelf. She hadn't left yet, not for good.

Did they kick us out at a certain time? And if so . . . then what?

I just wanted to be plain old boring Iris Spero again, playing my violin at the park, drinking bubble tea with my friends, watching old movies on the couch with my family, our Sunday night takeout special.

But I didn't know how that could ever happen now.

I was too anxious to just lie there, pretending to sleep. I needed to use the bathroom anyway, and then I'd stretch my legs, see if the storm had passed. And after that, I'd call my parents. I was afraid to look at my phone—at the
slew of texts that had no doubt followed my abrupt sign-off the night before.

I glanced over at Mikki, but she was still curled up under the blanket, sleeping. I counted—ten women in their beds, meaning only Zoey and I were awake. There was no clock, though, no window to gauge the natural light. I got out of bed anyway and slipped on my shoes and my still slightly damp sweatshirt, smoothed down the knots of hair spilling from my ponytail. I gave up, though—there was no mirror, and I hadn't thought to pack a brush. What did it matter, anyway?

The door was locked on the outside for those in the hallway, but from the inside I was free to leave. I gently closed it again behind me, waiting to hear the soft click of the lock falling back into place. I turned toward the restroom, but my path was blocked—I couldn't move another step without bumping straight into Zane, hovering in the hallway, arms folded across his chest and a soggy, graying newspaper in his hand.

“God, are you always just lurking around in hallways?” I asked, the question sounding meaner than I'd intended. He'd knocked me off balance, again.

“My sister's using the ladies' room. I was waiting for her. Is that a problem?”

“I'm sorry,” I started, my face reddening—a fact that
I'm certain he took note of, given the slight smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “It's just been . . . a long night. A long day. A long few weeks, really.”

“A long few weeks,” he said, staring down at me, tapping the newspaper against his chest. He sighed. “I know what that's like. A long few years, really. Or just a long fucking life.”

“I really am sorry,” I said, easing back so that I could pass around him and head for the door, soak up some fresh air while Zoey used the restroom. “But I have to—”

“Wait,” he said, reaching out with his free hand to grab me around the wrist. I jumped back, shocked by the contact. His hands were rough, strong, too tight around my arm. He must have sensed my unease, because he loosened his grip, though he didn't let go altogether. “I need to show you something first. Somewhere quiet.” He jerked his head back toward the desk, where I saw two staff members pretending not to watch us. “It's still pouring out. Pretty bad, actually—they said they'll even let people stay during the day so no one has to go back out there right now. Power lines down, flooding all over the streets. A fucking mess. They usually kick people out, night shift only, but not today.”

I nodded, not sure why he was telling me any of this—why he was talking to me at all, given our past encounters.

“We can step outside, though. There's a roof over
some of the courtyard. Just a few minutes, okay?”

“Why?” I asked, still acutely, wholly aware of the fact that his hot palm was pressed along the inside of my wrist.

“I need to tell you something. Private.”

“I really can't imagine there's something you can't just say . . .”

Zoey stepped out of the bathroom door next to us, and I paused. She didn't look at me.

“Hey, Zo,” Zane said, hunching down so that he was closer to her level. “I need to talk to this girl for a few minutes outside.” Zoey glanced over at me now, tilted her head curiously, as if she was trying to figure out what kind of business could possibly be going on between her big brother and this stranger.

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “I'm still tired, anyway. If they're not booting us, maybe I'll just go back to sleep for a little.”

Zane kissed the top of her head and then stood up straight, catching my eye as he motioned toward the door. I followed him, because—I don't know why, exactly, other than because he obviously had some sort of reason, and what was five minutes of my day? It wasn't like I had any actual
plans
. While Zoey asked at the front desk to be let back into the bedroom, I stepped outside behind Zane.

It was pouring even harder than I'd expected, sheets of icy water blasting sideways through the courtyard. Rain
thudded against the roof above us, spilling from an overhanging drainpipe in one massive torrent, a waterfall cascading into a colossal dark and muddy puddle just a few inches away from my feet. I had left my jacket in the bedroom, which I regretted now as I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up tighter around my head.

“Okay, so . . . ?” I almost couldn't hear myself over the pounding rain, the wind that was rushing around us in circles, a wild vortex in our little courtyard.

“So,” he said, flipping open the newspaper that had been rolled up in his hands. A tabloid, with big, bright letters and a big, bright photo smeared across the front. “So
this
.”

My heart pounded, burst, a catastrophic explosion in my chest that sent tiny black stars spiraling through every last bit of me. I reached out to grip the wall so I wouldn't crash onto the slick cement beneath me. Zane grabbed my shoulders, anchored me to the ground.

“I thought you needed to see this,” he said, the words quiet, so much quieter than the rain, so much quieter than the thrumming that was still tearing through my body.

I had known this would happen, hadn't I? Those reporters, after all, they'd been outside my house for a reason. But still . . . knowing and seeing, they were two very different things.

Because right there in Zane's hands, it was my face—it was
my face
on the front page of the newspaper.

My face, and three words.

The Missing Messiah?

•   •   •

“I came out earlier and found this here, wrapped up in plastic. No one else in there would have seen it,” Zane said, tilting his head toward the door, the front desk. “And they probably won't go out in the rain for another one. I won't tell anyone. Not my story.”

I nodded slowly, in a daze. I had grabbed the paper from his hand, and now I sank down to the filthy wet cement and stared unblinking at the front page while the storm hammered down all around me. I couldn't feel the rain, though, couldn't feel the cold or the wind or Zane's eyes, watching me while I read. Nothing mattered but this paper in my hand.

Reporters weren't prowling just on the streets of Brooklyn, apparently. They had also gone straight to Green Hill, the place where all of this had begun.

Reporters had knocked on doors, and people had talked. From the perspective of the article, they were all
concerned
. Someone must have leaked that I'd left home the day before. Where had I gone? Was I safe? Would I
ever come back, or was I running like my mom had done almost eighteen years ago? They were concerned for me—but they were also concerned for themselves. They talked about the old story of Virgin Mina—of the joyous discovery that her baby had
lived!
—and how special I could be. How maybe I was the answer so many people were searching for. Especially now. After Disney.

Kyle Bennett, of course, was at the head of the pack.
“I saw her up in Brooklyn after I first found out Mina's baby was alive. Just for a minute, looking down at me from her window. I knew right away it was her. I felt it. You don't need to even talk to her to know how special she is. It's like it radiates out of her eyes in waves, this kind of peace and calm. I saw her and I knew that everything would be okay. That she was here now. Please, Iris. Please help us.”

I read his words again, that last line.
Please help.
He made no mention in the article of our conversation—because he hadn't given up, not at all. He was just changing tactics. I had said no to him once, but could I keep saying no? No to him, and now to everyone else, too.

I started dry heaving, sweat dripping down the back of my neck, my forehead, despite the wind whipping through the thin sleeves of my sweatshirt. There was nothing to throw up—my lunch the day before a long-distant memory—and I was too tired, too empty, to do anything but collapse against the dirty cement.

“Iri—Clemence,” Zane said, stooping down to the ground next to me. I felt his hand on my back, patting me, a stiff, clumsy thudding against my shoulders. “You need to get back inside right now. It's cold and you're soaking wet. You're going to get sick. Okay? Let's go.”

“I can't,” I whispered. My throat burned, raw from the heaving. “I can't go in there. I can't go home. I can't go anywhere.”

“Well,” he said, his hand slowing, stopping, but still resting on my shoulder. “You can't just go nowhere either. That's not an option. Trust me.”

“Did you read the article?” I asked, whipping my head up, catching him off guard. He jerked his hand back, braced his fingertips against the ground to keep himself from toppling over.

“Yes,” he said, hooking me with his sharp eyes. “So people think you're pretty special, huh?”

I tensed, waiting for him to laugh. But he didn't.

“Yeah, whatever this shit is, it seems pretty fucking scary. I give you that. I heard about your mom before, you know. I heard about some girl that people thought might be carrying the next Jesus or whatever.”

Even Zane had heard about Virgin Mina. A secret about
me
, and somehow I was still the last to know.

“My grandma always used to talk about it when I was little. Told me that we live in a fucking terrible world these
days, because people can't even believe that God might still try to come down and do a little good for us shitheads once in a while. That we don't deserve to be helped if we screwed over the one person who might have been able to do something.” He laughed then, but it wasn't at me or about me. “If only she'd known I'd end up here, with that girl she thought was dead. That you were here in Brooklyn all along, that whole time she was talking about you, wishing those people hadn't mobbed your mom. I don't believe in heaven or God or any of that shit, but still. I hope she's looking down right now smiling.”

The idea that he knew me, that his own grandmother had believed in my mom, made me want to bolt out of that courtyard, to run through the rain, to go anyplace where not a single person knew my name. But it also made me awestruck, that his grandmother, a woman who'd never met my mom, had held so much faith. Enough so that years after the baby had been “lost,” she'd still sat there in Brooklyn talking about it with her grandson.

Mina had meant something.
My mom
had meant something. And I did, too. I could. If I chose to, maybe.

But no
. I cut myself down.
No
, I couldn't mean something, not if people really knew me. Then they'd see that I was just like them, that I couldn't help even if I wanted to. And of course I did, I'd want to help people if I could, if I had the power. But I didn't. So I couldn't.

I didn't know what had happened to my mom, why that old lady Iris had come to her, made her pregnant—but that didn't make me a savior. Maybe the whole point had been that miracles
could
happen, right here, right now, to the most normal of people in the most normal of everyday places. A random, small-town girl and a random, small-town pizza place. If we believed that my mom became pregnant just like
that
—snap!—through some sort of flick of the spiritual wand, we could believe in anything, really. We could believe that there was something, someone looking over us.

Maybe the pregnancy had been the whole reason and the whole lesson. I was just the inevitable by-product. A baby. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Zane,” I said, even just that one word shaky on my lips. “Zane, maybe what happened to my mom is really true. It sounds crazy, but I just—I don't know, I don't think my mom's lying, not about this. But it ends there. I'm not special. I'm not some kind of Messiah.”

“I wasn't saying that you are.” He paused, his lips twisting up into an almost smile. “
Clem
. I just said it's what my grandmother used to say, and I guess it's what some of these crazy-ass people in Pennsylvania believe, too. But me?” He folded his arms across his chest, drilled into me even deeper with those cool, stony eyes. “I haven't seen proof of anything magic from you. No wings. No fucking
beams of light.” He waved a hand around my head as if to prove there was nothing there. “You seem like a pretty normal girl to me. No offense.”