I try to slip away, but Dad catches me. I find him looking at me over her shoulder. There's something hard in his face, something I've seen only a few times when he lets his guard down. He puts it away as quickly as he can, and I look away as if I haven't seen it.
“Where are you going?” She turns in his arms, her eyes searching for me.
“Just out for a drive.” It's not that uncommon a thing for me to do. She puts the tulips on the counter and smooths her apron with both hands.
“You didn't eat your pancakes.” We all look at the full plate. The feeling that all the air is being sucked out of the room intensifies. I gotta get out of here.
“I'm not hungry,” I say, even though her face falls. “I'll have them when I get back, okay?” I flash a quick smile and go to grab my shoes and keys.
“I'll put them in the fridge for you.” Dad rests his chin on the top of her head and puts both hands around her tiny waist. She gazes down at the tulips, fingering one of the delicate petals. So perfect.
At one time, they'd been so valuable they'd caused a mania in Holland so intense people were trading houses for one bulb. She'd told me all about it, and I'd even done a history project on it once. Actually, she did most of the research. I got the best grade I've ever gotten in my life on that paper. My teacher had read bits of it out loud to my class, much to my humiliation.
Her tulips hadn't bloomed yet, but they would soon. She had so many that our yard would be covered in their bulbous flowers, rising with the sun and drooping at the end of the day, their blooms lasting for such a fleeting time. That's what makes them so special, she says. They are only around for a short time, so you have to cherish them. To value them.
I crank my car into action, trying to decide where to go. A few minutes of my car idling and lip chewing decide it for me.
I try to prepare myself mentally for what I might find. I've swiped my mother's cell phone, just in case. I also have a Swiss Army knife in my glovebox as part of an emergency kit. I pull it out, just in case. The fact that I think that I'm going into a situation where I might need a knife should give me an indication that this is not a good idea.
My feeble wipers have to work overtime to try and cut through the fog that clings to everything and blocks out the sun. My jeans stick to my skin, bogged down with moisture, and my hair's curling more than usual. I have to keep brushing wispies out of my face. The fog is appropriate for what I'm about to do. I pause for a second when I get out of the car, considering. I grab the knife, weighing it in my hand. That and the cell phone are my only protection.
It seems like it takes hours to find the mausoleum. I have to look a little to find the right one. Things look so different in the daylight, such as it is. I keep tripping over dips and rises in the ground. A squirrel scares the daylights out of me when it leaps out of a tree onto the ground right in front of me. It takes a few seconds to get my heart to stop freaking out. All signs point to home. Do not go to the cemetery, do not collect $200, but I keep walking toward the mausoleums.
Finally, I find the right one with the broken angels outside. One of them is missing an arm, the other a wing They look sinister in the fog.
Five
I have a moment of rational thought, but I quickly shove it away and stalk forward, knife at the ready. It's really just for show, because I don't posses any knife-wielding skills.
My chest gets all tight again and my throat threatens to close up, like it's preparing to be assaulted again.
Calm down, Ava.
Of course, there's no one there. Making sure, I glance all around, even peering into the darkness of the mausoleum, stale air reaching for me. The fact that it's still open tells me that I didn't hallucinate what happened. I mean, my imagination is active, but not that active.
I'm totally alone. Nothing, no evidence anyone has been here. No backpack, soda cans, sleeping bags, spray paint. Nada. No cell phone either, which sucks. All I see are urns on shelves with plaques beneath them, covered in dust and I-don't-know-want-to-know what. Just to be absolutely sure, I search the tangled grass. It shows no signs I'd been lying on it last night.
Suddenly exhausted, I collapse next to a stone with the name George Barber, 1873-1927, Beloved Husband and Father. I hope he doesn't mind. My skull bangs against the stone as I lean back.
“You came back.” The voice makes me freeze. I guess I'm not alone. I recognize the voice as the one who didn't strangle me, so I might not be completely screwed. I still have the knife held tightly in my fist. The problem is that I'm sitting he's standing, thus the advantage is in his favor. My back is also toward him, with George's headstone between us.
“I can come here if I want. It's a public place.” The words jump out of my mouth. Of course, the first thing I say isn't a question like, what he's doing here, or what the hell that was about last night, or if he was the one who put me in my car. I suck at saying the right things. I need to write them down.
“If you had wanted me dead, it would have happened already.” I read this in a book once, or saw it in a movie. It pops into my head and I say it. It sounds good. Fear slides down my back, covering me like a suffocating blanket.
“True enough.” He's still behind me. I don't like it so I turn so I can at least see him. I don't want him to know that I'm shocked. Stay cool, like that song from West Side Story, only I won't be singing and dancing and snapping. My skin crawls with the need to go home, get away, but I'm not going to let him see it.
“You're still here.” I go for casual. I turn my head just enough so I can see him. Always watch your back.
“Yes.” He's just as dirty as he'd been the night before, but the clothes are different. He's also bonier than I remember, like he's starving. Maybe he's got Manorexia. His clothes are full of holes and there are leaves in his hair, like he spent the night in the woods. He stands with his hands at his sides, hair covering his eyes. I wonder how he can see.
“What do you want?” Something about him crawls under my skin and makes me say snappy things I normally wouldn't to a stranger. The breeze blows that strange scent my way. It weirds me out, because he should seriously stink, given how dirty he is. Instead, I smell something crisp and fresh. I catch a glimpse of one his eyes. I think it's green, but I can't be sure.
More silence. I don't know what to do, how to extricate myself from this situation. My feet beg me to run, but I stay where I am.
He still hasn't moved. Not a twitch, no knuckle cracking or shuffling feet. He's barely breathed, as far as I can tell. I finally look up at him, squinting. I have the insane urge to stand up and brush his hair out of his eyes. Instead, I fiddle with my own stray strands.