Mistwalker

TWENTY-ONE Willa

Because the fog was so erratic, some of the juniors started gathering the little kids in groups to guide them to the school. Parents walked their kids to the base of the hill, then we waited until we had a whole class to lead.

The heat from the path thinned the haze, giving us a clear shot from the village to the school. As long as everybody stayed on the pavement, we could get up safely and back down again at the end of the day.

Somehow, it just got organized. Seth had kindergarteners, and Bailey scored the sixth-graders. They had no trouble herding their classes to Vandenbrook.

It wasn’t so easy for me. I ended up with fourth-graders. Though I couldn’t prove it, I suspected their parents gave them Red Bull and straight sugar for breakfast. They were old enough that they argued about holding hands, and little enough that they could disappear in two seconds.

I lost the Lamere twins the second day and nearly had a nervous breakdown. Calling my throat raw, I scoured the path from top to bottom four times. Right when I thought I’d have to call the police, I found them. They sat on a stump just off the path, building a faery house out of shells and sticks.

After that, I made my kids say one letter of the alphabet each, in order, all the way up the hill. If a J or a Q dropped off, I knew I had a runner.

Denny streamed past with her white blond hair and an orderly line of first-graders. It wasn’t until she got the whole class ahead of me that she turned around. And it unnerved me, because she met my gaze on purpose. Her face was soft, her lips pursed.

She looked thoughtful. Or sorry. Something sympathetic, and it dragged a cold touch along the nape of my neck. That wasn’t the face of the girl who’d spat at my feet or gone riding with my boyfriend. I raised my hand to acknowledge her.

Fog curling around her pale head, Denny only stood there. Then, out of nowhere, she said, “I liked Levi, you know.”

Stiff, I tried to nod. “There was a lot to like.”

Whatever had stopped Denny pushed her to move again. She swept up her first-graders and flowed on toward school. Her voice echoed in my head. It hurt in a whole new way to hear my brother’s name. Like forcing a needle through a blister and going too deep. It left me with a sour taste in my mouth.

I turned back to my fourth-graders, then heard Nick calling in the distance. It was another blister to recognize my name on his voice, actually. We hadn’t talked since the bonfire; I wasn’t sure I wanted to. But his little sister was in fourth grade, and she hadn’t been at the base of the hill when we were ready to head up. They must have been running late together.

I put one hand on each of the twins’ heads to keep them from wandering and called back, “I’m not going anywhere!”

From the pale, Nick appeared. He was shaggy as ever, clinging to his sister’s hand. But instead of letting go, he plowed into my fourth-graders and pointed back to town. “Your mother’s been trying to call you. She says go home right now.”

My heart knotted, and I shook my head. “I can’t, I’ve got to walk them up.”

“She smells like cheese,” Jamie Lamere volunteered beneath my hand.

Nick clamped him by the back of the neck and nodded me away. “I’ve got ’em. Seriously, Willa, you better go.”

Fixed in place, I hesitated. But just for a second, only long enough to hand over Ash Lamere, too. That one thought I smelled like onions, and he wanted to start the alphabet. I thanked Nick and ducked away from them, walking just short of a run. Pulling my cell from my pocket, I shook it, like that would make it ring or something.

Suddenly, the fog burned off. Not gradually; instantly. It was so clear, I could see the church steeple at the other end of town. Completely bare, trees stretched their naked limbs, sharp, black streaks against the sky. There were no clouds, not even a contrail to break the expanse of blue. This light washed everything brighter. Cleaner.

As I turned the corner onto Thaxter Street, I slowed. An unfamiliar car sat in front of my house. Its shape nagged at me as I came up the walk. Like I should have been able to place it. Once I opened the front door, it made sense. Ms. Park, the prosecutor, stood in the middle of my living room.

She held her elbows at awkward angles. Kinda like she wanted to comfort my mother but didn’t know how.

When I stepped in, she looked to me. Her smooth poker face revealed nothing, and my mother saved her the trouble of speaking.

“They’re not gonna charge Terry Coyne,” Mom said coldly. Blame flowed from her. She held out a hand to me, and that was soft. But her face was hard. Her eyes were diamonds, flashing from my face to Ms. Park’s. “There was a problem with the warrant. The bullets in his car don’t count.”

Ms. Park tried to soften it. “They don’t, and I’m so sorry. But this is only a setback. We’re running down a lot of other evidence.”

“There wasn’t any,” I said, lips numb.

“There’s always more evidence,” Ms. Park replied. She even sounded like she believed it. “And we still have you.”

“Then let me talk,” I said. “I saw it all. I was there. They have to listen to me.”

“And they will. But you’re not enough, Willa. Not for an indictment, not for a conviction. And I’d rather convict Mr. Coyne in five years than let a jury find him not guilty now.”

Throat raw, I spun toward Mom, then back to Ms. Park. It didn’t make sense to me. The bullets made a connection, yeah. But I’d seen it all. I was there. I could have sat in a courtroom and pointed him out all day long. For the rest of my life, I’d never forget his face in the night, and that should have counted for everything.

My voice broke as I insisted, “But I was there.”

Ms. Park said something soothing and meaningless. That only ticked my mother off, and she started shouting. It was a hazy mess to me, voices tangled up. High and low, loud and soft.

When it got hot, Ms. Park said she’d come as a courtesy, that she wanted to make sure Mom heard it from her, and not the news. Ma told her where she could shove that courtesy.

The next thing I knew, Mom had chased the prosecutor out of the house. I followed my mother to the porch, just in time to catch her. She didn’t faint, she just gave up on standing. Flailing at the world, she didn’t want to be set down gentle, but I did it anyway.

Curling around her, I tried to soak up her tears. I tried to calm her—like Ma Dyer said, I tried to help her breathe. But this was a kind of drowning nobody could save her from. Especially not me. I was going down with her. I could only manage one thought, tangled in grief with her like that.

“Does Daddy know?” I asked, rocking with her and digging my fingers in.

He didn’t. Not yet. But he would.

Twisting braids into my hair, Bailey sat on the top porch step, and I sat on the bottom. Her knees framed my shoulders. With every new knot, she made my head bob. I was her marionette, and I sort of wished she could just stay in charge of me.

After the shock, all I had was despair. My legs didn’t want to support my weight any more than I wanted to stand. If I had, I might have walked into town. I might have seen Terry Coyne buying a box of chew and sucking on a bottle of root beer.

Bailey dragged another lock into place. There were too many obvious things to talk about. When my father would be home (soon). How he had reacted to the news (badly). Whether Mom should have told him in person instead of over the radio (nope).

Instead, Bailey kept my buzzing head full of things that didn’t matter. Mental sandbags against the coming flood. “I heard Amber was chasing Nick around, angling to get invited to the winter formal.”

“Good luck with that,” I said.

“I know, right?” Bailey tipped my head the other way. “Cait got her dress, did I tell you?”

“Uh-uh.”

“It’s blue, with silver lacy stuff on top. It matches that bracelet you made.”

“Hope they sew better than I string beads.”

Cranking my head all the way back, Bailey looked down at my face. “Not really. It’s all ragged at the bottom, and it’s only got one shoulder. It’s like Picasso in real life. I’m not sure how any of the parts match up. I’m afraid too much is going to show.”

Grim, I smiled. “Mean.”

“Truth.” Bailey let my head go, then made a soft, worried sound. “There’s Dad’s truck.”

In a way, I expected him to screech up to the house, tires smoking and brakes protesting. Instead, the old pickup glided toward us. Smoke filtered from the window; Daddy wasn’t even trying to hide his cigarettes now.

My stomach went bitter. The memory of ash in my mouth was vivid; I felt the roll of the boat again. The ache in my head from hitting the glass—it was all brand new. One of Bailey’s hard tugs brought me back to the present. Daddy pulled into the driveway, but he didn’t kill the engine.

He got out and walked straight for the house. The blankness on his face matched the eerie certainty of his steps. Possessed by something, he moved slow and deliberate. I was halfway to my feet when he reached the porch, but he didn’t even look at me.

Brushing past, he left the door open when he went inside. Untangling myself, I started after him. Just then, my mother cried out.

“Bill!” she shouted. “Bill, you stop it right now.”

Panic rippled through the air. I burst inside, then plastered myself against the wall. Daddy dropped the stock of his shotgun against his shoulder. Buckshot shells rattled as he dropped them into his pocket.

I wanted to say something, but my throat was stuck. It was too much, everything was too much. Frozen, I ground my shoulders against the wall and watched in horror.

Putting his head down, Daddy moved like my mother wasn’t tearing at his shirt. Like he didn’t hear her, see me. Bailey jumped out of his way, her face drained of all color. Cracking the brittle tension, I forced myself to follow.

Our dooryard wasn’t that big. Bleak, thorned rose vines clung to the gate trellis. Scattered with fallen leaves and long shadows, it looked like a cemetery. Mom dug in her heels, scattering the leaves. She tripped and hauled herself up. Wild and feral, she flung herself at Daddy.

“You can’t do this, Bill,” my mother sobbed.

She struggled against him, pounding his back with her fists. The blows fell away; she may as well have punched a wall. When he turned, I was afraid he would hit her. Instead, he pulled her hands off his flannel and held her at arm’s length.

Behind me, Bailey chanted, “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” less a prayer than an exclamation. Struggling against my reluctant body, I jumped the steps and ran toward the driveway. I reached the truck just as Daddy slammed the door closed.

He reached out the window to shove my mother away. Even in that he was gentle, but he was firm. It was terrible, a slow-motion severing.

For a second, everything seemed to float. A snapshot of a moment: my mother catching herself on the fence, my father hanging out the window. I would have sworn that time stopped—no, skipped. A blank flicker when Daddy met Mom’s eyes and said, “Goodbye, baby.”

Slumping on the fence, Mom started to sob. Daddy threw the truck into reverse and tore out of the driveway. When time started again, I moved with it. I ran after the truck, like I might actually catch it. Arms windmilling when I realized I couldn’t, I twisted around.

Mom couldn’t stop him, and I couldn’t either. He had his gun, and he was heading up the hill to find Terry Coyne. Something monstrous was about to happen; the last shreds of my family had caught fire. Inside I flailed, but not for long. We didn’t have long.

The clean, black-capped shape of the lighthouse loomed in the distance. Automatically, I turned to it. Like it was my new north star—like it was my last chance. I took a few, wobbling steps and called to Bailey.

“Take care of my mom,” I shouted.

I didn’t wait for an answer or let myself see the fear in Bailey’s eyes. There was no time for it, no second guesses, no hesitations. It took me a few loping steps to get up to speed, but when I did, I burned with it. The untied braids in my hair came loose, and the wind whipped it all around my head.

When I’d had to escape, when I’d needed to get home, I’d hit the front door of the lighthouse running and come out on my parents’ porch. Chest burning and throat raw with every hard breath, I hoped it worked the other way. I prayed and wished, and when I hit the shore, I screamed.

“I want to come back, Grey!” Splashing into the surf, my teeth chattered instantly. The cold gripped, razor sharp. But I kept wading out, salt in my mouth, blood in my throat.

“Grey, please!”

The muck pulled my shoes off; I fought to keep moving. I know I screamed for Grey again, that my voice tore through the clear, clear sky. Then the shallows dropped off, and I plunged beneath the waves. Below, it was frigid and peaceful, until I cut the water with frantic arms.

I sank, and I sank, still screaming.