“What do you mean?” I looked down, shuffling the mail that I’d organized the day before.
“You’ve been distracted for days, Cassie. Is something wrong at school?”
“No.”
“Then what?” She stood, arms akimbo, more like a drill sergeant than a convalescent.
I nodded, at a total loss for how to start. “Do you remember the bus accident that happened in Gideon a while back?” I finally asked. “The one with a bunch of West Lakes Elementary School kids?”
Nan nodded. “I do. It was about eight or nine years ago.”
“Eleven,” I corrected.
“Could be,” she agreed slowly, her eyes faraway.
“We passed that school the day it happened.”
“I remember,” she said. “We were going to Miss Loretta’s house. Do you remember her?”
“Not really.”
“We were there three or four times to bring her food or groceries, sometimes just to visit. You loved the figurines she kept by the window.” Images of delicate, lacy castles and cats ran through my mind as Nan looked back at me. “What about the accident?”
“There were children playing outside when we passed the school,” I reminded her. “I saw something.” I stopped, trying to find the right words. “A light, kind of a glow, around them. Not all of them, but a bunch. About twelve.”
Though her expression didn’t change, there was a sharpening in her dark eyes. Recognition.
“I saw the same thing this week at the hospital. On Mrs. Gettis when Norton wheeled her out of the room.” I paused and, just to be clear, added, “The day she died.”
Nan bit her lip and I heard her sharp intake of breath, breaking the silence in the apartment. Her hands had fallen to the side, no longer on her hips, but dangling impotently. We were still in the foyer and I wished we’d made it to the living room, because Nan looked drained, as if her body might sink to the floor. When she spoke, though, her voice was calm. Quiet, but strong. “What are you saying, Cassie?”
I shrugged, though there wasn’t much uncertainty about it. “I’m saying … that I think I see something—this mark—when someone is about to die.”
She nodded slowly as if this crazy, awful thing I’d told her was perfectly normal. Then Nan crossed the foyer in two sure steps and gave me a hug. “Come,” she said, typically Nan. “Help me make some tea.”
It was a huge relief to have said it, my body feeling physically weakened. I’d known Nan would listen, she always did, but still I’d been afraid. This was much different from telling her I’d failed a test or thought the kids’ charity she’d donated to was a fraud. Those things might upset her, but at least they were believable.
We purposely talked of the everyday while we worked; Nan asked about the neighbors, the mail, my tests and papers. It wasn’t until we were in our usual spots on the sofa that we went back to it. Nan’s legs were curled close to her body. She always sat that way, snuggled up against herself, her body leaving a permanent imprint on the cushion.
“I remember that day,” she said, cupping her mug. “We got lost. That’s why we passed West Lakes. You asked me something about the kids, something odd.”
I nodded, sipping my tea for distraction.
“Tell me about it, Cassie.” She waited without the slightest hint of anxiety or eagerness or fear. She was like this in everything. And only because of that could I share the implausible, the impossible.
“There’s not much to tell, not much more than I’ve already said.” I took a deep breath, trying again to find the right words. “It’s a light, a glow. Like an outline around the person.”
“Bright?”
I pictured Mrs. Gettis rolling past us in her wheelchair, before shaking my head. “Not so that it’s hard to look at. More … constant, I guess. Not a glare.”
“Not a reflection? Like the sun off metal?”
“No. But it also doesn’t come from within the person. It’s not like they’re glowing, exactly …” It sounded ridiculous. “More like they’re standing in front of something lit and I can see its glow around them. But when they move, the light always stays behind them.” I shook my head and said what I knew Nan was thinking: “It sounds crazy.”
“It does,” she agreed, “but you’re not the crazy type, Cass. There have been others? Besides Mrs. G. and the kids?”
I nodded.
“A lot?”
“Not a lot. But enough.” More than enough, now that I knew what it meant. Nan waited, sipping her tea, her eyes never leaving mine. “The last one before Mrs. Gettis was a year or two ago. We were driving through town, going to the mall, I think. She was old, sitting on a bench. It was quick, I barely saw her.”
“And before that?”
“I don’t know. It seems like there’s always such a long stretch between. I haven’t paid that much attention.” Even as I said it, though, I could see them flashing before me: a young mother pushing a stroller, a man in a wheelchair, a couple kissing before they got in their car. Years of them imprinted on my brain.
“You’re sure that’s what it means?” she asked.
“No.” How could anyone be sure of something so outlandish? “But I think it’s a possibility. A very real one. What else could it be?”
We finished our tea, neither of us answering my question with the obvious response that it could be anything. Anything would be more likely than what I’d told her. It wasn’t until we put our mugs down that Nan broke the silence.
“So, what now?”
“I don’t know,” I had answered. “I need to think about it.” But the idea had already formed. I knew what I needed to do and the next day, I told Nan my plan. The one that had led me to Mr. McKenzie.
Looking back, it seems weird that I didn’t question more—before Mrs. Gettis and Mr. McKenzie—what the mark meant or why I saw it. I guess it’s like hearing a strange noise or seeing a flash of lightning. You hold your breath until it happens again. And again. Each time you get closer to pinpointing its origin. I had seen the mark a handful of times in my life. Sometimes no more than a passing glimpse, like the old woman on the bench. The sightings were never close enough to link one to the next or discern a pattern. It itched at me a little more every time, but that nagging feeling always dissipated as days passed. It was a small idiosyncrasy in my life back then. Maybe there was a why and maybe not. It didn’t really matter.