Текст книги "The Lost"
Автор книги: Sarah Beth Durst
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Chapter Eleven
Five days after I was pronounced dead, Claire bursts into my bedroom. “He found him!” She bounds onto my bed, and I bolt upright. For an instant, I think, The Missing Man! She’s beaming from cheek to cheek. In her arms is a bedraggled polka-dot bear. “Prince Fluffernutter! Peter found him!”
I flop back onto my pillow.
Peter appears in the doorway. He has a gash in his trench coat. I open my mouth to ask if he’s okay, but he holds up his hand. “I didn’t kill anyone. The thief was already dead.”
Claire cuddles the bear to her cheek, unfazed by the news that the bear came fresh from a corpse. I think of the dead man on the couch and am less sanguine.
“The thief said to say he’s sorry. Your bear reminded him of one he used to have. I told him he’d have to make do with the memory.”
Claire nods as if this makes sense.
“Upside is that he won’t come back here, so we’re safe from him,” Peter says. “Downside is that he knows the Missing Man hasn’t returned. Our thief had the glow, but he hasn’t been sent on. Others have realized this, too.” He points to the gash in his coat. “A few aren’t happy that I lied about your unfortunate demise.”
For five days, I’d almost felt safe.
I’d scavenged.
I’d looked for weaknesses in the void, at least as best I could on foot.
Peter had even left a few times to rescue lost people from the void and, apparently, to continue his search for Claire’s lost bear, and I hadn’t felt in danger, though I had been careful to stay away from town and out of sight of any townspeople. But now...my fake death wouldn’t protect me anymore. “Wait. You talked with a dead man? And what ‘glow’?”
“The dead get lost, too, you know,” Claire says matter-of-factly. “And when people are ready to leave, when they’ve found what they lost, they kind of...glow. A little. It looks pretty.” She sniffs the bear and then holds him out to me. “Can you wash him? Please?”
“Uh, sure,” I say. “Like I’m-a-bride glow, or a more radioactive thing?” I think of the woman in the diner who had the odd light that clung to her. Merry, I think her name was. “When you say ‘a few aren’t happy,’ do you mean they’re actively hunting for me? Do they know where I am?”
Peter beckons me. “Found you a present, too, Goldilocks. Come on.” He trots out of the bedroom and down the hall. Swearing under my breath, I yank on jeans—a treasure that I found a few days ago, shortly after I scraped the last of the red paint off my skin—and follow him outside.
On the porch there’s a mountain bike. We’ve seen bikes before, lots of them, most with bent frames or missing wheels or rusted so they can’t move. But this one looks pristine.
He stands behind it. Proud. Nervous. Even, I think, a little fearful.
Reverently, I touch the handlebars. This...this is... A bike doesn’t need gas. A bike doesn’t need roads. A bike can take me...away. Far away. With this...I can look for a way out. Really look.
Behind me, Claire skids to a halt in the doorway. “Ooh, can I try it?”
“Lauren first.” Peter’s eyes are only on me. “She has something she needs to do.” He hands me a backpack. It’s heavy enough to have several canteens of water. I’m guessing there’s some food in there, too. “Remember, ‘Not all who wander are lost,’” he cautions. “But a hell of a lot of them are. Keep your distance from town.”
I look into his eyes and think I see hurt in there. It suddenly occurs to me that he wants me to refuse the gift, refuse what it means. He wants me to stay. But I can’t. This is my chance. Maybe it’s only a slim chance, but I feel sure in a way that I can’t explain that I can do this, find the crack in the wall, find a way out. I at least have to try.
Peter hands me a wig. It’s blond curls, like Dolly Parton. “So no one will recognize you, at least not from a distance.”
“Thanks.” I pull it on, tuck in my own hair, and then I carry the bike off the porch.
Claire trails after me, her eyes wide. “Lauren?”
I look at Claire with her wide puppylike eyes, and words stick in my throat. Kneeling, I hug her. She throws her arms around my neck. I want to reassure her, tell her I’ll be back, that I only want to explore, that it’s unlikely I’ll find a break in the dust, especially on my first trip out.
But it could work, and if I do find a break...
My throat and chest feel tight. I don’t want to miss Claire. Or Peter. I wasn’t supposed to care about either of them.
Peter leaps off the porch and lands next to us. Gently, he pries Claire out of my arms. Claire curls up against him. He strokes her hair and murmurs, “If they come back they’re yours. If they don’t they never were.”
“If you love someone, set them free.” That’s the start of that quote. I don’t meet Peter’s eyes. I can barely meet Claire’s. She’s imprinted on me like a duckling. Except for sleep and showers, she hasn’t left my side. She’s like the little sister I never had. How can I just leave her? And Peter... “Most likely, I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
“Most likely,” he repeats.
I don’t know what else to say. I shouldn’t care so much. Mom is waiting for me and Peter and Claire...they are nearly strangers. Except that they don’t feel like strangers at all.
Feeling stiff, as if my muscles are unwilling, I climb onto the bike and start to pedal. The paper clips and buttons and bottlecaps crunch under the tires. I ride out of the yard and turn to head into the desert, toward the dust that imprisons Lost. I don’t look back.
As I pedal, I force myself not to think about the look on Claire’s face or in Peter’s eyes and instead think about the last time I rode a bike. A couple years ago, Mom had gotten it into her head that a family reunion would be spiffy, and so she’d set up a weekend getaway by a lake in Oregon. I was forced on several hikes and bike rides with my cousins, all of whom were so very enthusiastic about my potential to climb the corporate ladder now that I had a job as a marketing and PR assistant at a consulting firm—my first wise career move, they said. Never mind that I was the assistant to the assistant. Or that I hated it. And them. I nearly quit my job after that weekend. But Mom caught a stomach flu, and since her immune system was crap... And, well, I hated the hikes, but the bike rides were the best part of the weekend. No one tried to talk to me on the bike rides. Everyone was too focused on not hitting a root in the woods and flying over the handlebars to either criticize or compliment my life choices. I could admire the greens and browns of Oregon in peace.
Composed of opposite colors, the desert is equally beautiful. The sky is lemon-yellow, and the sun caresses the dirt and rocks, causing the mica in the rocks to glitter like diamond shards and the red clay to look like flecks of rubies. Lost objects litter the desert floor like old bones: socks, keys, phones, wallets, glasses, pens, books, magazines, dentures, umbrellas, hair clips, spoons, scissors. And I feel optimistic for the first time in days. As I ride, I let myself think about home, about Mom, about life without hiding or scavenging. Without Peter and Claire.
Peter and Claire will be fine without me. They’ll forget me soon and live their own lives, and I’ll live mine, and this will all fade into a dreamlike memory. Missing them will only hurt for a little while. Not as badly as missing Mom.
Ahead is the void. It rises in front of me, a wall of dust.
I slow, and then I turn to ride alongside it—the town to my left, the void to my right. After a while, I see a shape ahead of me, like a boulder, a few yards away from the motionless dust storm. It’s an abandoned car, a convertible. Reaching it, I slow, then dismount.
I check the ignition—no keys.
I check the glove compartment—nothing but registration, insurance, and a wad of napkins from a fast-food restaurant. Also a tire gauge. For an instant, I consider keeping the gauge, but I don’t have a tire pump so it’s pointless. I shove it back in the glove compartment, and I pop the trunk.
Beach chairs, useless.
Beach towels... I stuff one in my backpack.
Suntan lotion, nearly full. Brilliant find!
Sandwich, great. Bag of pretzels, okay. Soda can... I’ll save it for Claire, I think. She’ll love the treat. And then I remember that I’m leaving. If I’m lucky. If this works.
I feel a pang and try to stifle it quickly.
I close the trunk when I finish, and it occurs to me that I scavenged this car without hesitation. Elsewhere, my actions would be considered theft. I hope I can shed this charming new habit quickly once I’m home. Otherwise, Mom might be embarrassed at how often the police have to haul me in for petty larceny.
I try to imagine how I’ll explain this place to Mom and what her reaction will be. She might laugh. Or think I’ve lost my mind. Lost my mind in Lost. Hah. Maybe she’ll think it’s a joke. Or a lie. I hate the idea that she’ll think I’m lying to her.
As I smear the suntan lotion on my face and arms, I notice that the dust bank covers half the hood of the car. Odd. I’d thought the car was parked several feet away from the void. Backing away from the void, I climb on my bike.
Peter said to treat it like quicksand, or a black hole. Only a Finder or a Missing Man can enter the void without danger. If he hadn’t found me after my car ran out of gas... Without a Finder, an ordinary person like me will disintegrate inside the void. Fade away and never return. But if I can find the end of the dust storm, I can bypass it and escape. If I can even find a thin spot, I can punch through the storm to the other side. Pedaling, I ride parallel to the void, watching the dust for any weakness.
Soon after the car, the void undulates like a wave beside me, and I slow down. In one area, the dust swirls and bubbles. It looks like a whirlpool in the middle of a red lake. I watch as the void forms a funnel and shoots out several golf balls and a hat. They impact in the sand a few yards in front of me. I stare at the balls and hat. I stare at the void. It’s calm again. The moment would have been comical if it weren’t so freakishly bizarre.
I see the phenomenon happen several more times as I ride on, keeping several yards between me and the dust storm. Some of the objects sail far over my head, as if propelled by a rocket. Some crash in front of me. As the sun inches across the sky, I dodge objects in my path: a box of coats, a few cameras, an ice skate, a dead fish that’s as long as my arm.
Up ahead, the dust thickens again. It swirls, and then the whirlpool widens. In the center it’s black. The swirl expands, wider than any I’ve seen so far. I stop cycling. I wonder if I should retreat. It’s spinning faster and faster. It sucks back—and then the void expels a house. It flies over my head, and I instinctively duck. It crashes to the ground.
It’s a Cape house, and it looks abandoned. I know I should search it, scavenge for whatever has been left inside. But I can’t make myself move. I stare at it and think, I’m not simply in a town with crazy people. I’m in a crazy town that has made people crazy.
Shaken, I keep riding. Nowhere does the void seem weak or thin. It maintains the same opaque thickness as I circle the town. If anything, it’s thicker than I thought it was. And scarier. A hell of a lot scarier. I keep my eye on it, aware now that if it wanted or even if it didn’t, it could drop a house on me and then ding-dong, Lauren is dead.
It doesn’t end. It surrounds the entire town and the outskirts. Like a wall. Like a fence. Like a noose.
It takes me the entire day to circumnavigate the town of Lost. By the time I reach the abandoned convertible again, the sun is sinking, and my legs hurt worse than they ever have before. Half of the car is swallowed by the dust, covering the hood and windshield, as well as the dashboard. I dismount and walk the stretch from the edge of the void back to the little yellow house, walking the mountain bike beside me.
I wish I were brave enough to pedal into the dust. I wish I thought that Peter was lying about the danger, that I hadn’t been merely lucky before, that I could ride out of here, even though I’d failed to drive out. But I don’t think he was lying. I can’t pretend this is an ordinary dust storm, not anymore. And I can’t pretend there’s a way out.
Claire and Peter are waiting for me on the porch.
I lean the bike against the house, and then think better of it and take it into the living room. I put the kickstand down so it stands behind the couch.
“Did you—” Claire begins.
I turn to see Peter has put his hand over her mouth. His eyes are full of sympathy.
“At what point will this place drive me mad?” I am surprised by how calm my voice sounds. I would have thought I’d be more dramatic at the moment that I admit that I am truly trapped by some...impossible phenomenon, that this isn’t a temporary problem, that I don’t have a plan and don’t even have a plan to have a plan. There’s no crack in the void, no break in the dust, no way out. I should be wailing. Gnashing teeth. Tearing out hair. But I just feel empty inside.
They don’t answer, and I don’t expect them to. Maybe they would have told me the dust surrounds the whole town if I’d asked, if I’d wanted to hear. I’d deluded myself. Hope blinded me.
I walk past them both and up the stairs into the empty attic room.
I hear footsteps on the stairs, both heavy and light. I don’t turn around. Something soft is pressed into my hands. I look down. It’s Mr. Rabbit. Claire sits next to me and hugs her knees to her chest. Peter sits on the opposite side.
“We’re all mad here,” Peter says.
“I noticed,” I say.
“But we aren’t what’s keeping you here.”
“Is that why you gave me the bike? So I’d see that?”
“We aren’t your jailers.”
“I knew that before. Really didn’t need the object lesson.”
“You...you don’t blame me?” He sounds tentative, oddly vulnerable.
“Should I? Anything you aren’t telling me?” I look at him, his perfect chiseled face and his beautiful black eyes, his mysterious tattoos and his ever-present black trench coat. If I’d left, I’d have missed him. He walked out of that dust storm and into my life, into my heart. Knowing this doesn’t make my failure any easier.
He shakes his head. “Most...blame me anyway. I am the one who brought them out of the void. I saved them. But all they see is that I brought them here, not home. They don’t see that it’s better to be here with hope than to fade away without hope.”
“I don’t blame you. Never did.” I blame myself. I blame the test results that I wasn’t ready to hear, the diagnosis that I knew was coming that I didn’t want to know. I blame my cowardice. I’m the idiot who didn’t turn left.
He smiles, so full of light and joy that I have to look away. I can’t match his smile. I feel an ache in my rib cage like a fist. The same invisible fist is crammed in my throat.
I don’t expect him to tell me what to do. But I wish he would. I wish Mr. Rabbit would pipe up with his wisdom and save me from despair or insanity or whatever is supposed to happen to me next. But no one says anything.
We watch the sun set.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Peter jumps to his feet. “I’ve watched you yearn to leave. Now I’m going to show you why you should want to stay.” He holds out his hand.
I take it.
* * *
“Buttons. Paper clips. Socks.” Peter hops and leaps over the various lost items that litter the desert floor. Claire skips behind him, as if it’s a hopscotch game. “You think that Lost is a junkyard of crap like this.”
“All evidence agrees with that.” I step over a snow boot and then several flip-flops and think, Don’t need snow boots in the heat, and flip-flops are impractical with all the little metal objects around... I stop myself. Jesus, I’m doing it again. Exactly when did I start to think like a scavenger? Like Peter. Maybe this is what I need to do, if I can’t leave. Quickly, I shove that thought away before it sweeps over and drowns me.
“I have another present for you,” he says.
Claire sighs happily. “I love presents.”
“For her, munchkin.” Peter ruffles her hair.
She fake pouts. “You like her better than me.” Then she sticks her tongue out at him. “That’s okay, I like her better than you, too.”
He laughs.
The three of us clamber to the roofs. I still don’t like to walk across the boards of not-secured-at-all timber, but I am faster at scooting across than I used to be. At least I know better than to look down. Or think about splinters. Or think about anything, like the possibility of never leaving. Carefully, I take that thought, wrap it in emptiness, and bury it deep in my mind.
Peter has left boards on top of many of the houses around Lost. He’s connected others by rope ladders and even zip lines. On the zip lines, Claire has to restrain herself from whooping in delight at the rush of wind. Usually, so do I. Today, though, my heart feels too heavy.
Keeping to the outskirts, we head farther south. We don’t have boards or zip lines here, and the houses are too spaced out anyway. We scramble down to earth and keep to the shadows to stay out of sight. Thanks to my long bike ride, the sun has nearly set. Shadows are deep and wide, and it’s not difficult to stay shrouded in darkness.
At last, after nearly an hour, we come to a red barn.
Peter shoves the massive door open a crack, and we slip inside. Except for the dying light that spills through the crack, it’s dark inside. There are no windows, and the spaces between the boards don’t let in much light, especially when there’s so little daylight left. Peter pushes the door shut.
A small candlelike flame flickers on in the palm of Peter’s hand. It’s a battery-operated candle, the kind used inside jack-o’-lanterns or in votive candle holders in restaurants that don’t want to use actual candles. It sheds a flickering orangish light on white bedsheets that cover the walls of the barn.
Peter strides forward, pulling the sheets one by one off the walls. And I gasp.
Under the sheets is art.
He returns to stand next to me, in front of the first painting. It’s of a boat with billowing sails, tipped sideways in a storm. The crew fills the deck, yanking on the rigging, huddling against the wind. The waves crest in brilliant white, and there’s a patch of sun and blue sky above the white waves, hemmed on all sides by black clouds. I know this painting. I breathe the name softly, reverently, “Rembrandt, Storm on the Sea of Galilee.”
I walk to the next painting, an Impressionist piece. A man in a top hat. He looks out at the viewer. He holds a pencil as if he’s midstroke. There’s a glass next to him, half-full of bronze liquid. The flickering fake candlelight catches on every brush stroke. “Manet. Chez Tortoni.” I recognize the next, as well. “Vermeer.” And next, four Degas. Several of these works were stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Others were lost in WWII. I recognize a Picasso, stolen in 1982 from a private collection.
Peter hands me the faux candle. “Stay as long as you like,” he says softly. “We’ll be outside when you’re ready.”
I look at him, and I see in his eyes: he understands. His look is tender, and for an instant, I feel so very full that I want to run into his arms and cry. I look away, not knowing where that thought came from. My gaze lands on one of the Degas paintings. So very unexpected, so very amazing. And he knows. Peter understands how amazing it is.
I lower myself to the sand floor in the center of the barn, and I let the masterpieces soak into me. I barely hear when Peter and Claire leave. I sink into the colors and the light and the brushstrokes and the lost beauty that’s no longer lost to me.
Poem
Things I found:
lots of pens
rubber bands
paper clips
scissors
a stolen Monet
several hundred single white socks
condoms
a stuffed puffer fish
overdue library books
a pair of opera glasses
stale movie popcorn
a complete bat skeleton in a case
companionship
unexpected laughter
fear
a coin from ancient Rome
Chapter Twelve
I blame the lost masterpieces for the stuffed puffer fish. After I saw the Rembrandt and the Degas, I may or may not have made a stray comment about how I didn’t think it was possible to find anything more unexpected in the garbage heap that was Lost.
Peter took that as a challenge.
So did Claire.
Over the next several days, he came back with a carousel music box, a locket with a dried rose petal inside, and a half-used notebook filled with mirror writing and sketches of helicopters that I refuse to believe was da Vinci’s. She brought vintage Barbie doll heads, diamond dog collars, and fuzzy dice with lipstick stains, as well as a World Wrestling champion belt from 1991. This, I’m convinced, blows them all out of the water.
I make a mental note to remember to say that, since I like the pun.
Gingerly, I unwrap the T-shirts around my prize, and I lay the fish in the center of the dining room table. The fish’s eyes are wide and its mouth puckered, as if it had died surprised. Its torso is swollen like a balloon. It’s clearly old. Its spines are as brittle as the prickles on a desiccated cactus, but I think there’s something beautiful in its fragility. It shouldn’t have survived the trip here in the tornado of dust, but it did, wrapped in layers of shirts. I only found it because I was looking for shirts to paint in. Not art. There’s no time for that. But I can add a few illusions to the shades to make it look like no one lives here. And then maybe I can repaint the interior: a nice yellow for my bedroom and a pink for Claire’s, if I can find enough.
I tuck desert blossoms around the puffer fish so it lies on a bed of petals, and I add a few flowers to the spines, as well. I hum as I work. It’s one of Peter’s tunes. He constantly hums or sings, usually songs that I don’t recognize. Lost music. Stepping back, I admire the fish. He looks like he floated here out of a fantastical picture book. I should name him...but maybe Claire will want to do that.
Since Peter and Claire aren’t home yet to admire my find, I head to the living room and pluck a book off the shelf. Peter collects books like a squirrel hoards nuts, and I’ve been adding to his collection with books that I’ve found, mostly library books. Settling into the couch between a dozen mismatched throw pillows, I glance out the bay window, still partially blocked by the stop sign—
Dust.
It’s all I see.
Brown-red, blotting out the desert and the sky. It’s as if a pastel were smeared across the world, blurring everything together. Spilling the book onto the floor, I run to the window.
I see blue sky immediately overhead and red desert in front of me—it isn’t all dust. I can breathe again. I thought...I thought it was all gone, and I was alone, stranded in this house, an island in a sea of dust. But no, there’s sky and there’s earth and there are mesquite trees and there’s a tire, a hat, and several cell phones strewn between them. I even see a bird flit across the blue. It veers toward the dust and then sharply away, angling over the desert, as if it, too, knows to avoid the unnatural dust storm that squats instead of swirls.
Still, I can’t relax. I can’t return to my book. I can’t do anything but stare out the window, trying to calculate the distance between the house and the void.
Half a mile, I think.
It’s never been this close. I’m sure of it. Mostly sure. I pace in front of the window, trying to see it from different angles. Usually, it’s a smear on the horizon like haze over pavement on a hot day. It’s never filled a portion of the sky before.
Behind me, I hear the click-click-clack of our homemade lock on the front door, followed by bounding footsteps in the hall and then Claire’s voice from the dining room. “Wow! Porcupine fish!” She coos over the fish with exactly the enthusiasm I wanted, but I don’t move from the window.
Peter’s feet are soft on the carpet behind me. “Well played.” His voice is musical, amused. Five minutes ago, I would have loved to hear those words.
I point out the window. “It’s closer.”
He’s silent. At last, he says, “Yes.”
“Much closer?”
“Much closer.”
I stare at the dust. It seems motionless.
He perches beside me on the window seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his face, serious, even sad. His eyes are deep black pools as if he’s in shadow instead of the bright daylight.
Hugging my arms, I picture the dust cloud creeping closer and closer, spreading and swallowing everything in its path. “Why is this happening?”
“‘If you believe,’ he shouted to them, ‘clap your hands; don’t let Tink die.’ Many clapped. Some didn’t. A few beasts hissed.” Peter traces circles in the dust on the window. I wonder if it’s desert dust or debris from the void or if there’s a difference.
I shake my head. “I don’t—”
“‘What we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.’ The beasts are hissing with the pain of their unfed hope. But they should clap instead.” He sounds as if he’s earnestly imparting wisdom, but he’s not making sense. I don’t think he’s teasing me. There’s no humor in his eyes. I wonder if he slips into the cryptic speak when he’s afraid. It’s an unnerving thought, and I hope I’m wrong. Peter enters and exits the void all the time searching for lost people. He couldn’t be afraid of it.
“What happens if it reaches the house?” I want him to say that it will pass by, or that it wouldn’t reach the house, that it will stop just beyond the town, but it’s so vast that I can’t imagine any structure blocking it. “Peter, what will happen?” My voice rises.
Claire pads into the room. “Oh. She noticed?”
“Yes,” Peter says simply.
“Told you she would.”
“I need an explanation, a clear explanation, please.” I think my voice is remarkably calm, given the situation. “Why is it closer? Is it closer everywhere? Is it contracting around us? Is it swallowing us?” I am shouting. I clap my mouth shut so hard that it rattles my jaw. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I don’t need them to answer the last question. I can see for myself. Pivoting, I march to the bike behind the couch.
Claire trails after me as I pull the bike through the hall and carry it outside. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Peter has followed, too. He stops on the porch. Claire launches herself off the steps and climbs onto the back of the bike behind me. She wraps her skinny arms around my waist and leans against my back. I’m on the tip of the bike seat, but I don’t object.
I look at Peter. He looks oddly lonely standing on the porch of the house, the front door swung open wide behind him. His face is carefully blank, as if he’s hiding sadness or fear or some other emotion darker than either of those.
Leaving him, I ride with Claire out of the yard toward the dust.
The sun beats down, and I feel sweat prickle my back where Claire clutches me, her arms tight around my stomach. My hands are slick on the handlebars. Last time I rode out to the border, it took an hour. This time, I reach it much, much faster.
I don’t know how I failed to notice how strange the dust is on the day I came to Lost, but I am very aware of it now. The air is clear where I am and then only a few feet away, it’s choked with dust. The dust hangs in the air, barely stirring, as if it’s suspended in a liquid.
Claire continues to cling to me as I turn east and follow the edge of the void. I never thought to measure its distance from the houses before. I didn’t think it could move. Never thought to ask. Peter warned me to avoid it, but he never said it could come to me. I imagine it rolling in like the tide, sweeping over the desert and then the houses and then the heart of Lost, erasing everything like it erased the horizon.
A half a mile later, I hear a scream.
I skid the bike to a stop. “Claire?”
“Not me!”
“But where?”
She points past my shoulder: up ahead in the direction we’re headed, near the void.
I could flee. I should flee. Whoever is screaming is most likely my enemy. Certainly my enemy. It would be safer, better, smarter, not to let whoever it is see me. But I can’t. There’s no one else out here to help, and the scream hasn’t stopped. It’s such a raw scream that it pulls me forward.
“Claire?”
“Yes?”
“Hang on.” Leaning into the handlebars, I pedal faster.
The dust storm looms beside me and ahead of me, and I don’t see... No, there! A figure. A woman. I pedal harder. It’s a woman in a waitress uniform, screaming at the void and hurling anything she can reach—boxes, shoes, jackets, hats, kites, spoons, forks, notebooks—into the motionless beige wall. Closer, I hear words in her scream. “Give him back! You can’t take him! Give him to me!” The rest dissolves into curses. Tears are streaking down the woman’s face, smearing her mascara on her cheeks.
Victoria, I think. I’m surprised that I recognize her. I’m even more surprised that I remember her name. But then, she is the one who first kicked me out, who first hated me. I slow and then brake. I don’t know what to do. Do I run? Do I speak? Do I help? She seems to be doing a fine job of hurling things and curses into the void on her own. But she’s close to the dust, too close.
Victoria lifts up a toilet seat and hurls it into the dust. I don’t hear it land. I realize I haven’t heard any of the things she’s thrown land. It’s as if the void has swallowed them.
Before I can decide what to do, Claire jumps off the back of the bike and runs toward Victoria. “No, Claire, wait!”
Victoria stops, turns, and sees us.
She won’t recognize me, I think. I hope. I wish I were wearing a wig or had made an attempt at a disguise—I left too suddenly for that.
Her eyes widen and then narrow. She straightens as if she’s backed against a wall. “You!” She imbues that word with such anger, hatred, and revulsion that I shiver.
So much for not recognizing me. “I heard you scream...” I try to explain.
Reaching her, Claire tugs on her sleeve. “Back up. Please. It could come closer.”
Victoria yanks her sleeve out of Claire’s tiny fingers. She steps backward, and her pointed black high-heeled shoes are only inches from the void. “Let it come. It took my Sean.”
“Oh!” Claire sounds like a squeezed bird. “No! Not Sean! How?”
