The Breathless Page 16

  Cage saw her shoulders rise and fall. He realized she was crying, and then he could move, and he did. He pulled her against him, holding her because it was all he could do.

  “Mae,” he said. His arms tightened around her. Mae pressing against him felt good, and he couldn’t help himself, he breathed in the smell of her hair like he used to with Ro.

  She tilted her chin to look at him. Instead of moving away she held still, staring up at him through the rain. The water on her face, on that hair of hers, her neck.

  He tried to back away, but his legs wouldn’t work. She was standing between him and the house, trying to protect him even now, and then his thumb was on her lips and he didn’t know how it had gotten there and he was going to kiss her, it was all he wanted, and the next thing he knew she was pulling out of his arms, stepping back.

  It was over.

  The rain pelted down between them, and she was staring at him, her head tilted to the side, her wet hair darker than Ro’s. She wasn’t Ro, she was Mae, and he’d almost gone and lost the only friend he had left. His head ached, but it was nothing compared to what he felt inside.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, except now he was so ashamed he couldn’t stand to look at her. She was too much like Ro, only she wasn’t, she would never be, and this was all wrong. It was his head—it was going funny on him again, the pain sharp and steady.

  Another streak of lightning split the sky, and he turned and stumbled for the gate and shoved it open, needing to get away, to leave. He ran to the edge of the trees, and only then did he stop to glance back at the house.

  It was dark. Something panged inside his chest, and Christ, he couldn’t think of Mae alone in the garden. He had to think of Ro.

  He should walk toward the highway, hitch a ride to his uncle’s place. But he couldn’t go there, not now. Not like this, drenched and desperate. He needed to clear his head first. Dry off in the barn, sleep, think.

  Cage stumbled deeper into the undergrowth. The rain had eased, but everything around him leaked, like the entire world was a boat with a hole in it and it was sinking and always had been. The branches were dripping; the leaves were dripping. He raised his head to the sky and held open his mouth, caught a few drops. He was so thirsty, and dizzy too—he hadn’t eaten all day. Just a little farther, just a little farther. He started running, trying to find the barn. It was close, not much longer now. He kept going, charging forward, falling and picking himself up again. It felt like someone was following him, and he didn’t recognize the trail; nothing in the woods looked familiar. A huge tree that he didn’t remember blocked his path. He wandered around it, and instead of seeing the barn he fell onto sand.

  He was on the beach. It didn’t make sense—he’d been walking toward the barn, but here he was. A white-hot pain pulsed in his head and he shut his eyes and then opened them.

  The sand was wet. The clouds parted and the moon fell down on the black water, a round pool of light, all the way out in the center of the bay. The water was calm and flat, like it had never rained at all.

  And there in front of him was the dock where it had happened, where they’d found her body. Think, Cage, think. His insides were burning, but he rose to his feet, stumbled over the sand dunes, through the seagrass. And then, at the far edge of the dock, he saw it. There was something resting on the planks. It looked like—

  “Ro?” His legs were taking him over the sand. It sloped down toward the water and he fell and got up all in one motion, pushed forward until his boots were clapping over the dock, pounding like his heart. At the end of the dock was a figure hunched over.

  Ro—it was her. It was her. She was in a black dress, and it was pooling out behind her on the planks. There were feathers on the dress. Feathers, and Ro, her face turned to the side. He could see her chin, her nose, and underneath were the feathers. They were everywhere. A pile of feathers and claws and…

  He sank to his knees. This isn’t real, this isn’t real.

  He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but the blackbirds were still there, the pile of dead birds, and now he could smell them. Sharp and sweet, the stench of decay.

  Cage leaned over and emptied his guts into the water. Heaved again and again until there was nothing left to come up. As he wiped his mouth, he saw it in the water.

  Her pale face, floating down, down, down.

  And then he remembered what he’d done.

  MAE WAS SOAKING WET, HER hands covered in silt. She’d cleaned up the muddy hole in the garden, hurrying so her dad wouldn’t wake up and find her outside. The house was quiet and dark when she finally let herself in and pulled off her soaked Cons.

  She made her way to the kitchen without turning on any lights—the hallway was a hazy silver path. Water pooled under her feet where she stood on the kitchen tiles; she’d left a trail of wet footprints across the floor. She felt cold to the bone, and her fingers were numb. It was hard to believe that Cage had just run off like that, though part of her hoped he’d leave Blue Gate—it might be better for everyone. She shivered, and the coldness felt like it was coming from inside her heart. Her dad would say that she needed warm milk, but what she really wanted was coffee, something to sharpen her mind, help her think things through.

  She set her bag on the counter and went into the pantry for the jar of grounds. As she reached for it, she heard hinges squeak—the door was swinging shut. She bolted toward it and slipped, the pantry going dark as the latch clicked. She felt panic rising as she rattled the knob. It was stuck.

  The flashlight was still in her pocket and she pulled it out and turned it on, found the string that was dangling above her and tugged. The bulb flickered and then settled, orangey and dull, casting shadows over the cereal boxes and tin cans on the shelves around her.

  Mae tried the door again, but it didn’t budge, no matter how hard she shoved her hip against it. Her heart seized as she realized the problem: the lock was on the other side. She was trapped.

  She flicked the flashlight off, wanting to save its battery. The pantry was so deep she couldn’t see how far back it went, and staring into the shadows made her uneasy. She still felt shaken up from finding Cage in the garden, digging in the storm. And now she was locked in here, and soaking wet, her bare feet streaked with mud.

  The pantry’s orange bulb dimmed, and Mae shook the doorknob again. If she called out for her dad, he’d want an explanation. But Elle should be sneaking home any minute—she usually slipped into the house just after midnight, when Mae was supposed to meet her at the front door in case their dad was awake, so he’d think they’d gone out together. So far her sister hadn’t told anyone about Cage, and Mae couldn’t risk making her mad by calling out for Sonny and getting her in trouble.

  So she’d have to wait for Elle. Mae tucked her wet hair behind her ears, took a deep breath. She hated sitting still. She crossed her arms, trying to stop shivering, and then saw a large cardboard box shoved underneath a shelf. She must have missed it this morning when she dragged the others into the dining room, intent on finding out more about Hanna.

  Mae tried the door again. The sound of the rattling knob was the only thing she could hear. She rubbed her face, tried to push from her mind all the ways she’d messed up lately. To distract herself, she went over to the box and pulled off the masking tape on top. Inside were more photo albums, but of recent years. She grabbed one and sat down on the box, her wet jeans leaking onto the cardboard lid.

  When she opened the book, she realized what it was. Not a photo album like she’d thought. A scrapbook. Ro’s name was written in bright red ink on the inside cover. Mae knew that she and Elle didn’t have a memory book like this, but their mother had packed this one full.

  The first page held a copy of Ro’s birth certificate. She’d been born at the same hospital where their mom died three years later. They’d never been able to talk to Sonny about it, but Ro had explained it in no uncertain terms. They came into existence and their mother died.

  Mae turned t
he page and saw a picture of her mother holding a serene-faced baby Ro in a hospital bed, a slender plastic name tag looped around her wrist and a huge white pillow propped up behind her. She looked as if a light was glowing beneath her skin, like there was a flame held to her green eyes. Even her brown hair shone. She seemed so alive, so radiant—and then she wasn’t, just like that.

  Mae knew her dad would always blame her and Elle, even if he didn’t realize it. Her eyes stung and she flicked past more baby pictures, stopping at Ro’s first birthday. Sonny had a party hat on and was laughing so hard he’d thrown his head back, while a gleeful Ro was in a high chair, the red velvet cake missing a huge chunk, her chubby baby fist holding it up in triumph. That man with short hair, the one who was howling to the moon with laughter, looked nothing like the dad she knew. At the table next to Ro was their granddad, a napkin draped across his stomach, a silly grin on his face as he held up a spoonful of icing, toasting the camera. Her mom must have taken the photo—even then she was invisible, forever out of reach.

  Mae skipped a few more pages, one of them stapled with Ro’s first drawing of what seemed to be a horse, probably inspired by the Childers’ stables. Next came a report from Ro’s preschool teacher. Ro was described as creative and charming, a pure joy, but the teaching assistant had also made a note: She’s inventive with the truth and likes to get her own way.

  Mae shifted on the cardboard lid, felt it bend under her weight as she turned to the end of the scrapbook. Then she stopped, her heart missing a beat.

  On one of the last pages was Ro, wearing a white Easter dress, a black ribbon in her hair and a basket in her hands. She was standing near the garden hedge, the green leaves rising behind her. She was about eight or nine years old—which meant someone besides their mother had added the picture to the scrapbook.

  Mae stared at Ro, an odd sensation creeping down her spine. She actually remembered her in that dress. She remembered the white lace and black ribbon, and Ro running out to the woods, and something heavy in that Easter basket. She remembered following her through spiky grass, and more snippets of memory that didn’t make sense, stitched together crookedly like the sequence of a dream.

  Looking at the photograph brought her back to that day. How she’d hidden while Ro stooped over the basket. How her sister had taken so very long with whatever she’d been doing, her back to her, that white dress sweeping over twigs and leaves. Mae had been watching and hiding, wanting to play a trick like Ro always did. Waiting patiently to spring out and scare her. But when Ro had finally turned, oh, when she’d turned, her dress had been a different color.

  The dress was a different color. Mae sucked in a breath and slammed the scrapbook shut, feeling her heart race. The black door in her mind shook on its hinges. She knew there was something important to remember, but it was gone now.

  She stood and rattled the knob again, but she couldn’t hear Elle or anything outside, and suddenly it seemed too dark, too dusty. The air felt ominous, weighed down—if she didn’t get out, she knew something terrible would happen. She could pound a can against the wall until someone heard her. But then, who was she hoping would help? If she woke up her dad, he’d see how muddy she was and ask what she’d been doing, and there was no way her granddad would hear her. When she’d checked on him earlier, he’d been slumped at his desk in the attic, a piece of paper spread over his Bible and his head resting on his forearms, already asleep.

  Mae glanced around the shelving, growing even more claustrophobic. Maybe there was another door; maybe the back of the pantry linked up with a tunnel or a crawlspace? She’d searched every bedroom in the house today, looking for hidden tunnels, but hadn’t thought to check the kitchen. Maybe there was a way out.

  Stepping farther into the gloom, she ducked past cobwebs. The walls narrowed and then turned at a sharp angle. Back here most of the shelves were bare—no one had used this part of the pantry in a long time—but on some of the shelves were jars of preserves. They were packed together, clustered in dusty rows. Food jammed and pickled years ago and stored here, under the staircase, because it was cool and dark and more protected than the basement.

  The ceiling slanted downward, and Mae lowered her head and kept walking, surprised that the pantry extended even farther. When she finally reached the end of it, she found an old wooden cabinet in a corner. She ran her hand along the far wall, hoping to feel a latch or a doorknob, but there was nothing.

  Just as she turned away, ready to yell for Elle or Sonny, she stopped. The faint stream of orangey light was spilling over the brick to her side, and she noticed something strange: a long, narrow crack behind the row of shelves. Mae stepped close and then gasped.

  It wasn’t a crack—it was a line of charcoal. Someone had written on the stonework.

  Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back.

  It was everywhere. The same words over and over again, a hundred times over. She put her finger to one of the marks, felt the dark chalky smudge. How long had it been here? Come back. Come back. Come back. Come back.

  She shivered, tamping down a sudden feeling of alarm. She traced her finger underneath the cursive as she moved past the bulky shelves, shifting jars to keep the charcoal in sight. Someone had wanted to cover it up, placing the shelves in front of it, lining up the preserves to block it. The lettering snaked all the way to the wooden cabinet in the corner and disappeared behind it.

  Mae shoved the edge of the cabinet. It didn’t budge, it was too heavy. An urgency overtook her and she opened its drawers and started emptying them out—there was china, a tablecloth, a pipe. When she was finished, she shoved the edge of the cabinet again, and this time it shifted. It took her another few minutes to push it far enough. Then she grabbed the flashlight from her pocket and beamed it behind the cabinet, on the tiny charcoal scribble.

  And there was its origin. A dark looping figure eight. Hanna. When she touched the lettering where it sloped upward, a sliver of the brick fell, dusting her feet. A dent in the wall?

  She touched it again, and this time the brick groaned backward, opening. It was a small door, no higher than her hip. She blinked, her pulse quickening as her flashlight cut through the dark haze. Beyond the pantry wall was a cavelike enclosure. Coldness streamed from it, and a smell of mold.

  The flashlight trembled in her hand. She let out a breath and crouched down, ducking into the darkness. As she straightened, the bright beam flooded another wall a few feet away. The space was cramped, the ceiling low. The stale smell hit her and she pulled her shirt over her mouth. The flashlight splayed across the floor and her heart nearly stopped in her chest. CHANA 4 CHANA was written in the center of the room, next to a circle drawn in chalk. Inside it were four glass jars of various sizes placed in a row. They had dusty lids and their glass was foggy and full of debris, hazy shadows. Mae gripped the flashlight as she stepped across the cold floorboards, holding the beam steady on the jars.

  A greasy residue had collected on the surface of the first one, and chunks of a hairlike substance were at the bottom. Floating inside the jar was a pale cat skull.

  Bile rose to Mae’s throat, and her legs felt weak as she pointed the flashlight to the next jar. Behind the debris was a coiled snake, some of its scales still intact. The third jar was as foggy as the first and she stepped closer, already guessing what she’d find. A bird claw was scraping against the glass at the bottom.

  That left the last jar, the biggest one. She had to see inside; she couldn’t stop herself.

  She squinted at it, the light hitting the glass. She reached out and tilted it and the debris trapped inside spun in circles, shifting and floating. Bits of tissue swirled in the murky water, and long dark hair was layered at the bottom. Her stomach knotted up as she shifted the jar another inch. Then came a tapping sound.

  The smear of a hoof smacked the glass through the globs of floating tissue. She gasped, her flashlight jerking back. A hank of what looked like the horse’s dark m
ane fluttered at the bottom, next to bone.

  God, who would do this? She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry and she felt like she might be sick. She wanted to run back to the pantry, get out of the cold and the dark and the smell that was everywhere. Instead she shut her eyes and thought of Ro, and then she opened her eyes and looked straight at the thing that scared her, just like her sister would have done.

  Next to the jars was something bright and red. She edged forward, bending down to touch the redness—it was a cloth. Soft, folded into a square, with stains on it and dark embroidery.

  Mae stared at the designs around the hem—vines and flowers and herbs. Without thinking, she grabbed the cloth. She backed away, nearly tripping on her own feet, the flashlight lurching across the brick walls as she turned and crawled through the small doorway, closing the thick door behind her.

  The pantry bathed her in orange light; she stood in its glow and caught her breath, the spidery handwriting on the walls blurring in front of her. Come back. Come back. Come back.

  A wave of dizziness overtook her and she shut her eyes. It felt like the floor was canting, ever so slowly, about to capsize underneath her, as if she was back on the sailboat with Ro. And then she heard…what? Someone breathing next to her.

  Her eyes shot open.

  There was no one in the pantry, no one hiding beside the cabinet—she was just imagining things. And tonight Cage had said that everything was mixing up in his head. The storm had drenched them both in the garden, and she hadn’t listened to him, hadn’t wanted to listen. She could see him now: crouching over Ro’s tarnished silver box, the raindrops glistening on his face and his dark hair, the gift cherub behind him pale and huddled. Cage had straightened, so tall, water streaming off him the way it streamed off the sides of a house in a storm. His body was tight with anger, but how he held her had been soft. His hands warm, threading through her hair, holding her close.