BREATHKEPT
By Saundra Mitchell
www.saundramitchell.com
© 2011 Saundra Mitchell, All Rights Reserved
Parker Nixon has never been away from home. She’s never been in love. And she’s never been wanted for murder… until now. The boy Parker got caught kissing last night turned up dead this morning, and there’s no shortage of suspects. Her reclusive father leads a double life, and the people at Stone Well Ranch have their mysteries too. But then there’s beautiful, broken Brandon Beauchamp. He saved Parker’s life once, and holds her heart in his hands. But he may be hiding the darkest secret of all. (YA/Mystery)
Cover Photo by Luna Vandoorne
(parker)
If I'd known how many people would die because I came to Montana, I would have paid more attention when I got off the train. I would have been more reverent, every second sacred.
But I didn't, so mostly I was ticked that my dad didn't come to get me.
See, I'd never been more than a hundred miles from home. My whole life, I lived in the same little apartment, on the same little street. I thought getting from Illinois to Montana on my own wasn't bad. I didn't have a sleeper car, so I saw endless Dakotas from my cramped seat on the train.
Tired, scrubby families got on, and frightening men with foot-long beards got off. I kept expecting the second coming of Jesse James to rush the car. I looked for the horses in the distance.
I watched too much TV.
My stop was Shelby, Montana. Hitching up my backpack, I stepped onto the small platform and murmured in surprise. I probably looked like those tourists in front of the Sears Tower, but I wasn't gaping at a skyscraper. It was the sky- arched and broad and endless.
I felt like I could raise my arms and float into the expanse. Over the oil and ozone of the train, I smelled trees and the cleanness of water. I missed my city, but my first look at Montana was amazing. The dark seemed softer here, like lights-down in a movie theatre.
A woman at the end of the platform accidentally caught my eye. I waved, because she looked lonely. She waved back before turning away.
I walked toward the parking lot and back again. I missed Orpheus, my classic VW Bug. He was cold in the winter, and hot in the summer, but I never had to wait for somebody else when he was around.
Mom flat-out refused to let me drive him to Montana, so my cousin had Orpheus for a year. Since I wanted to see the country instead of flying over it, I had to search the station for a familiar stranger.
He might have been balder or fatter. Or there might be lines drawn in his umber cheeks. Grams said when Nixons got older, our eyes turned from hazel to grey. I wondered what color his would be; mine were still caught between green and brown.
Would he recognize me? I didn't have braces anymore. I wasn't four feet tall and plastered in Disney princesses. I felt like a completely different person, but I didn't know how much six years could change a man I'd seen maybe five times in my life. The whole point of this trip was to get to know him. Being late- what a great start to our visit.
I jumped when the train exhaled a gout of steam. It felt like breath, swirling around me in a lazy cloud. Waving a hand to clear it, I squinted at a figure that appeared in the distance. I knew from his silhouette that it wasn't my dad- so much for worrying that I wouldn't recognize him. That tall, lean shadow wasn't him.
But the figure came closer, headed straight for me. And it's like- have you ever been too close when lightning strikes? Watching the storm come in, standing right there when the sky opens up and fire explodes over water?
It happens so fast, all you see is the shadow in the air. You have to close your eyes to see the bolt, played like a memory in the dark. It doesn't feel electric; it feels like a kiss.
That's what it was like, seeing Brandon for the first time.
Shoving something in his pocket, he approached. Shoulders curling, he pulled his hoodie up. It made blue shadows on his pale skin, and I stared at his hands. They were long and broad, and I wondered if they were rough. What they would feel like if...
And then I wondered if all that gold desolation in North Dakota had made me lose my whole mind, or just some of it.
"Parker?" he asked.
His accent caught me by surprise. It had a flat edge, one I couldn't place. He only said my name, but I wanted to hear it again.
And then I realized- this was my ride. This towering guy hiding in his hoodie, with his accent and his haunted eyes- he was the one picking me up from the station.
Swinging my hand out to shake his, I tried to smile. "That's me. Nice to meet you..."
"Brandon Beauchamp," he said. His hand barely skimmed mine before he slipped away from me. He turned toward the parking lot. "I live at Stone Well Ranch, too. Your dad-"
I cut him off. "Sent you to get me. I kinda guessed."
"Yeah."
He hesitated, then reached for me. I could tell he meant for me to give up my backpack, but I clung to it instead. Wrapping my hands around the straps, I urged him forward, saying let's go without saying anything at all.
If silence could buzz, his did. There was a wealth of tension around him, like strings I could pluck. Like he would play the right note, if I could think of the right question to ask.
But all that came to mind were accusations. Those had nothing to do with Brandon, so I kept them to myself. Chicago was another life, a world out of my grasp. I couldn't run home- some man I was supposed to call Dad waited for me. I just had to take a ride with a stranger first.
It was irrational, but it felt like if I took my time, it would all go away. If I took an hour to get to the car, the universe would change its mind. I'd close my eyes, then open them to find myself back in Chicago. Instead of ruby slippers, I had slow sneakers. I let Brandon lope ahead of me, his long legs carrying him off and leaving me behind.
The train shuddered beside me, a dark, living thing. Impenetrable, it gasped; a series of metallic cracks filled the air, like great chains snapping. A bright light flashed- a warning.
"Please stay behind the yellow line," a loudspeaker called. "The train is leaving the station."
Hurrying away from the largeness, the menace of the train, I veered around the woman at the end of the platform. But something- a shadow, maybe, a sound, prompted me to look back. Her shoulders shook and her face shone. She was crying.
A surge of sympathy filled me. Somebody'd probably ditched her at the station too. She could have been a thousand miles from home- okay, I could have been projecting, but so? Loneliness engulfed her, and I wasn't ready to walk into the unknown.
Turning, I walked over and put my hand on her arm. "Are you all right?"
She looked at me in confusion. "Oh, honey, I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
Before she could answer, Brandon came back. His face was paler than before, and all his turned-in strangeness seemed like twitches. He looked past the woman, like she wasn't even there. "We have to go."
"In a minute," I said. That I was busy was kind of implied. To the woman, I said, "Do you want to talk?"
Her confusion drained out, and she whispered, "Yes."
Brandon reached for me. "We have to go."
"Back off," I warned.
The ground wavered as the train rumbled to life. All at once, the woman grabbed my hands. Her touch wasn't cool or gentle. Her sweat stung my skin, and she dug her nails into me.
Steel screamed; some pleasantly disconnected voice blared but I didn't need the announcement. I saw the train. I felt it. The heat from it. The ground rumbled, making the ground uncertain beneath my feet.
In a moment compressed, I saw every shade of green that made up her eyes. She pulled me; my wrists popped. "Don't make me go alone," she begged.
Sweet breath spilled on my lips and her weight shifted. She was a violent anchor, falling toward the tracks, dragging me down.
Brandon threw an arm around my waist, just one, and pulled me off my feet. I stopped sinking; I started flying. I felt like a little kid playing airplanes in the back yard. Everything blurred, spinning around me. Instead of sky and grass and my mom's laughing face, I saw a woman with green eyes. Set free of me, she jumped.
She died.
(brandon)
Cops are cops.
Montana was just like Massachusetts: the cops stood on top of you. They put their crotch and their gun in your face, and talk down to the top of your head.
But this latest one at least, he only opened the door and stood in it. That was fine by me. He could stay there.
"Everything all right, Brandon?"
I pulled my sleeves over my hands and stared at the floor. "My dad here?"
"On the way," the cop said. He patted the doorframe, and talked all nice. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Nah."
My tongue was leather, and my mouth was dry like anything. I wanted some water, or a pop or something, but I couldn't say that. My head buzzed, full of horseflies. Dad shoulda been there. I gave them the number. I wrote it down, and checked it and somebody shoulda called.
"You sure he's not here yet?" I asked.
The cop smiled; he had too many teeth. "I'll go check again. Hang tight."
I felt people watching me through the two-way mirror. More cops. Lawyers. Who knows. The longer I sat there, the more I wanted to break the glass. I thought hard about it- about standing up. Throwing my chair right through, and then I'd run into the night.
This was supposed to be good for me. My dads gave me a picture of Parker and told me to pick her up on time- not that I needed it. Hers was the only brown face on the platform; she woulda been hard to miss.
But going that far alone showed they believed in me. Getting Jon's daughter proved how much progress I'd made. "And hey," Teddy had said, giving me one of those earnest smiles he was so good at. "Maybe you'll make a new friend."
Threading my hand into my hair, I pulled it. I knew when I saw that woman that she was about to die. The tears ran straight down her face. Snot glistened under her nose, and she didn't even try to wipe it off. She had death coming off her. It screamed as loud as the trains, and Parker shoulda listened.
My arms ached with wanting to touch her. Trying not to touch her. With grabbing her up and pulling her from that crazy woman's hands. When I bowed my head, I smelled Parker on my hoodie.
She was beautiful, and tiny, and she was never gonna look at me again.
Agitated, I itched to stand again. Maybe I could kick over the table. Break through the door. Maybe I'd punch the concrete walls until my knuckles bled, and I'd feel better.
Instead, the door swung open again.
My dad's a short guy, not even six foot, and he's soft. Not fat, soft. His hands and his face and the way he looked when he finally saw me, it was all soft. Like he was relieved and broken, or maybe both.
"Brandon, I'm so sorry," he said.
He came in and he stood and he waited. Because one time, I laid him against the wall. He dropped a hand on my back when I wasn't expecting it, and I about near punched him. He swore he wasn't mad. He wouldn't send me back.
So instead of screaming, or kicking, or breaking down glass, I swayed against his shoulder. Swallowing hard, I said, "I didn't hurt anybody."
"We know that," Dad said. He smoothed my hair back.
"Do the cops?"
"Yes, of course." Dad nodded. "There are security tapes; we know what happened. Are you ready to go home?"
"Am I allowed?"
Dad pushed me off his shoulder and sank down beside me. He put on his leveling voice. The one where he was honest with me, and straight and true. "You did a good thing, Brandon. No one's angry. You're not in trouble. You're coming home, and you can talk this over with Dr. Pawar tomorrow."
Finally, I exhaled. "Is Parker all right?"
"Thanks to you." Dad stood and gestured at the door. "Come on. It's okay."
I towered over him, always had. Good six inches at least, but when I hunched down in my hoodie, it wasn't so bad. I got to sleep in my own bed that night. Have dinner in my own kitchen. Wake up to windows and doors that I could lock and unlock and leave through anytime I wanted.
Dad was right. It was okay.
(parker)
I didn't let Dad get both feet into the kitchen.
"I want to go home," I said.
Morning seared through the windows. It was an insult. Sunlight mocked me, and so did the little, flittery birds singing outside. I rubbed my wrist, rubbing more ache into the bruises there.
I hadn't slept. I'd tried laying in the strange bed I was supposed to call mine. Each time I closed my eyes, I heard screams. I felt the burn of hot fingers imprinting on my skin, and tasted sickly sweet breath. Finally, I gave up and got up, and I'd been waiting for my alleged father to come through the door since sunrise.
That father considered me for a moment, then looked past. "You can't, I'm sorry."
He moved as if it were any morning. He acted like I was there every day. Like last night hadn't happened at all. When he put on a kettle, it screeched across the stovetop and I shuddered. Every sound haunted me; I was so tense, even the bang of the pantry door against the wall made me jump.
"Why not? I can, I can rent a car," I said, trying to plan an escape that took me nowhere near the station in Shelby. "Or fly, you just have to drop me off-"
"Parker, no."
He shut the pantry door hard, and I jumped up. "I don't want to be here now, all right? Please?"
Dad rested against the counter. His eyes, still hazel, held mine steadily. I didn't know what to think about him. He was ageless.
Mom's wrinkles leapt out at me; I helped her dye the beginning strands of silver from her hair. But this guy, he looked the same as he had when I was ten. Smooth and polished... and cold.
He was a statue that came alive, saying, "It was a bad start, I know."
He didn't know; he couldn't. "I heard her screaming all night!"
"That was the coyotes."
Stopped short, I sat again. Rubbing at the hollow ache in my chest, I watched him drop tea bags into mugs. Motion flickered between his shoulder blades as he filled the kettle, and put it on. He never looked back; his posture never changed.
What was wrong with him?
My mom was laughter and glitter. She was ice cream dinners and a hundred hugs before bed. After last night, she would have thrown her arms around me and held me so tight. Even if it was a lie, she would have whispered to me, that everything would be okay.
Throat tight, I forced back tears. Dad was awful, and I wasn't going to cry in front of him. Trying to sound neutral, I said, "I already left her a message."
"She'll say it's not possible."
"Anything's possible. Your kettle's boiling over."
Curling into myself, I cast a look out the window. I didn't know how the world could be so clean. How the sun could come up and burn through morning fog so completely. The lawn was rich green.
It gave way to a meadow, soft against the shadow of mountains in the distance, and sharp beneath the blue of an endless sky. It was beautiful- it was like nothing bad had ever happened. Slowly, I shook my head, looking up when I realized my frost father was talking.
"There's a doctor coming today." He thrust a mug into my hands. "He'll help you sort it out."
"What kind of... a shrink? You called a shrink?"
He stepped back when I slammed the mug on the table. "I know you're upset."
"No you don't," I told him. I shoved my chair hard, and its legs squealed on the bare wood floor. The sound carried, echoing up a fireplace that was almost as tall as I was. "You don't know anything about me."
Like a tall, broad wall, he stood there. But his face wasn't emotionless anymore. All kinds of things flickered across his brow. I couldn't read them, though- I didn't know his language.
Finally, he smoothed his expression again and said, "You'll feel better after you get some sleep."
A shriek split the air.
"That's not a freaking coyote!" I jabbed my finger at my dad, who hadn't moved. He hadn't even flinched.
"That was Elspeth," he said, because it was normal to have some woman screaming GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT at the top of her lungs for no apparent reason.
My heart quivered. I vaguely remembered hearing that name in the car, on the ride home, but I couldn't place it. The night before was shot through with dark spots, blinding shadows between the pulse of a strobe. "What's an Elspeth?"
"She's a poet, I told you. She's on retreat here." He glanced at the ceiling when she shrieked again. "That's part of her process."
"Are you brain damaged?" Incredulous, I wrapped myself in my arms. Fear bubbled over into anger, sudden, lashing words I hoped would draw some kind of emotion out of him. "Seriously, I'm not trying to be rude, but are you?"
"Parker-"
"Because I watched somebody die last night, and you... you're all, oh have some tea, never mind the coyotes. By the way, expect shrieking!"
Cheeks darkening, Dad took a sip from his cup and set it aside. Stiff and odd, he held out his hands. The palms were wide and scarred, and I couldn't help staring at them as he asked, "What can I do?"
"Give her a hug."
Teddy, one of Brandon's dads, walked into the kitchen, and right between us. He'd driven us home from the police station, the three of us crammed into a Smart Car, while Brandon and his other father, Rome, took the truck home.
Even though they lived here too- the cabin was giant, practically a log palace- it was weird for Teddy to just show up and start making breakfast.
My dad shifted toward me, but I shook my head to cut him off. I didn't want a hug, thanks. He looked relieved that he didn't have to give one.
Teddy offered me a gentle smile, pulling down dishes. "Dr. Pawar's coming in shortly. What do you feel up to? Fried egg? Toast?"
"That's really nice," I said. I shrank into myself. "But I think I'm going to lay down."
Ducking out of the kitchen, I hurried up the stairs toward my room. I didn't want to overhear what they had to say. I didn't want Teddy to be nice to me when my dad couldn't even look at me. Filled with an ugly, black ache, I pulled out my cell again.
No missed calls. No messages.
I dialed home anyway. My cell struggled to connect, and the static ticking on the line made everything worse. It went on and on, reminding me how far I was from Chicago; how alone I was on this sprawling, mountain-trapped ranch.
When voicemail answered instead of my mom, I hung up and gave up and cried.
(brandon)
Arthur and Madeline didn't care who I was or what I did before I came to Montana. They brushed their muzzles against my cheek anyway.
Usually brought them a treat, but that morning Parker Nixon was up at the house. Her voice drifted into the hall; her shadow filled the kitchen and warned me away. I left out the side door. I didn't even have my sweatshirt pulled down.
Some people say they love how a stable smells. I think they're kinda nuts. They probably liked on the hay and the leather, and the warm buzz that came off the horses. But I knew they didn't love smelling piss so sharp it burns. Nobody loved the smell of horse crap.
But getting hot and washed with sweat first thing in the morning, mucking out stables and working hard, that was king. I liked that a lot, especially when the sun was blazing.
Even when I slept good, I woke up itching. I had wires under my skin, firing right under my flesh. The sting pushed me to my feet; they made me move. If I went too slow, they'd get to sparking. I had too much in me, and I had to work it out.
Dad gave me the stables to clean. It sounded like punishment, but it wasn't. Rubbing my hands raw in gloves, raising that pitchfork high... there was a fire that started between my shoulders. It melted down my back, aching in my spine. There was a rhythm to it- a sure, hard beat- and it put the sparks out.
Jon, Parker's dad, told me one time that's why he liked to chop wood. Sometimes I wanted to try the axe, just to see.
But Stone Well Ranch had four working fireplaces. Jon kept them stocked, so I kept the horses in clean hay and alfalfa. The horses worked the most at Stone Well, so it was only fair to treat them right.
Technically, the whole place was a retreat. The cabin wasn't a little room in the woods. It was big enough to be an inn. We had a reflecting pool in the garden, and when the lawn stopped, the meadow started.
Long grass stretched out, swaying into the distance like a pale green sea. It washed into the woods, and the woods swallowed up our old pole barn. Then it was infinity, just mountains and sky.
At least, that's what the brochure said. Dad and Teddy let rooms to artists- that's why it was a retreat. They'd come for a couple days or a couple weeks. Last summer, a painter came to stay- he never wore anything but velvet. That fall, we had Elspeth, our poet, who liked to scream to get going in the morning.
Jon was my dads' friend, and he'd lived with them since always. He was there before they adopted me. He wrote books, and didn't drive, and sometimes he'd disappear into the woods for weeks at a time. But he was all right. And since everybody at Stone Well had issues, I didn't worry about it much.
For a while, I thought he was OCD, though. I already said he liked to do firewood- sometimes he'd go all night. The coyotes got to screaming, there was an axe ringing in the paper birches... then if it rained, it didn't fall soft on the slate roof, it hissed. If you weren't used to it, it could scare you.
One time, I asked Teddy if we could charge people fifty bucks or whatever to stay the night in our haunted cabin. He thought about it real hard until Dad shook his head and killed the idea with a smile.
So Stone Well had artists in and out, oddballs like me and Jon all the time, and two therapy horses. Back in Boston, Teddy trained capuchin monkeys to help people in wheelchairs. Habituated them, he said.
But when we moved, Cold Mouth, Montana was too far from everything to help with placement. It was a sad day when Teddy gave up the monkeys, but he got to talking with Dr. Pawar, and then outta nowhere, we had two blue roans.
Putting the pitchfork aside, I came around to make sure Arthur wasn't stealing Madeline's alfalfa. I stroked her neck until she snuffed and tossed her head. That was like her hug.
She felt strong and warm. Safe. Even though I was twice as old as most of the kids who came to ride, I got it. The horses were bigger than us. They were stronger. But they'd never hurt us.
"Let's go out," I said.
I saddled Madeline, figuring I'd just run her to the pole barn and back. But when we rode into the sun, there was a shadow in the field. I knew everybody's shape.
I could guess them from the slant of their shoulders, the way they walked. But I couldn't make out at first, whose hips swayed like that. Whose hair the wind pulled like that.
Circling around, I let the reins go loose in my hands.
It was like remembering. My heart beat hard, wanting to surrender, and all my sparks went wild. I shielded my eyes to get a better look at Parker. She stood there, framed in the wild grape vines that clung to the house.
She was small, and beautiful, and I couldn't touch her.
So I leaned over Madeline's neck, and urging her into a gallop. We charged across the pasture, just her and me, and everything else turned into streaks we left behind.
(parker)
"Would you like tea?" Dr. Pawar asked.
Thumbing through the texts on my cell, I nodded. "Sure. Thanks."
He didn't reply, so I had a chance to send another quick note to Leah, my best friend back home. She'd answered my mini-novel with three words- OMG U OK?- but hadn't picked up the phone when I called.
Dr. Pawar moved through the kitchen, comfortable beneath its beamed ceilings and familiar with every cabinet, it seemed. He found cups, spoons, sugar without hesitation.
The tea, though, he pulled from his own bag. It was a worn tin, and I thought it was suspicious. Who carried stuff like that around all day?
"I blend it myself," he said. I didn't really want a drink, or psychiatric care, or anything but a ticket home, but I couldn't help watching curiously when he produced two silver balls from a drawer.
They looked like Christmas ornaments, silver and ornate. But instead of hanging them, he twisted one open and filled it with spicy leaves that smelled like autumn. The scent stung, and made my mouth tang when he dropped the ornament in my cup and covered it with boiling water.
"All done with your phone call?" he asked.
I had a feeling he'd wait for me if I wasn't. Since I was ready to get this over with, I shoved my cell in my pocket. "Yeah, I guess."
"It's hot," he warned, as I reached for the teacup.
With just the tips of my fingers, I pulled it closer. "Okay, so... what? Do I tell you about my mother?"
Dr. Pawar smiled. "Do you want to talk about your mother?"
"No."
"Then don't tell me about her." He twisted the other tea ornament closed, and dropped it in his own cup. "I'm not an analyst, Parker. I suppose I could muddle through if you wanted a Freudian coddling, but it would be a waste of your time."
Weighing his words, I curled my hands around my mug. Heat steamed into my hands, a little too hot. Still, I didn't let go. "Can't you just tell my dad I'm all screwed up and I should go home?"
"Certainly."
"Really?"
Dr. Pawar measured sugar into his cup, cutting looks up at me between scoops. "I don't see the point in treating someone who doesn't want to be treated."
Something about that bothered me. He was already a weird psychiatrist, making house calls and tea. But shouldn't he want to shrink me? Wasn't that what they did? Unsettled, I stood, then sat down again, because where was I going to go? I took an experimental sip of my tea and made a face.
Tipping the bowl toward me, Dr. Pawar offered, "Sugar?"
"You know what happened, right?"
Dr. Pawar swirled his cup in his hands. "Yes, I do. Do you?"
"Yeah, I was there."
"Tell me what you think happened," he said. His voice was mild. Like- not disinterested, I could tell by the way he followed my face with his dark eyes that he was interested.
But it was a suggestion. Almost off-hand. Like, if I didn't say anything else, we'd have some tea, and then he'd be on his way.
And it wasn't until I started talking, that the way he said it started to prickle. "What happened," I said, flat and firm. "Is this lady grabbed me and tried to pull me under the train with her. Brandon pulled me off of her, and she... Her eyes were green and her breath was sweet."
I didn't know where the tears came from. They leapt up, unexpected and unwelcome. Turning blindly for a tissue, Dr. Pawar gave me a soft handkerchief and an encouraging smile.
"I can't..." I took a calming breath, and looked at the linen square in my hands. "I can't blow my nose in this."
"Why not? That's what it's for." He smiled.
Drying my face, I settled in the chair again. Sunlight flickered across the raw wood table, and all of a sudden, I was aware. Like, I'd been wrapped in layers of numb since the night before, and they'd peeled away to leave me raw.
I smelled Dr. Pawar's vanilla cologne, and the teasing autumn sting of the tea. I felt cold coming through the stone floor, through my shoes, but the warmth of the sun through the windows.
Birds sang outside and Rome murmured in the laundry, musing to himself as he folded towels. I glanced at the door and realized that somewhere, past there, through wildflowers and tall grasses, Brandon was cutting across the horizon on a blue-grey horse.
The world had started again.
I cleared my throat. "She jumped right in front of me."
"Are you certain?"
My temper flared. He kept asking, like I was making this all up! "Yes! She jumped, and she died, and..."
Dr. Pawar pulled out a laptop, opening it and turning it toward me. "The station was kind enough to give me a copy of the surveillance tapes..."
I shook my head. "I don't want to see it."
"Are you certain?"
For a second, I just stared at him, and he took that as my answer. I didn't want to see it; I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want therapy, and I didn't want- the list of what I wanted was shorter. I wanted this to all go away.
"The human mind is a remarkable thing," Dr. Pawar said, closing the laptop and putting it away. "We're designed to fill in gaps, to see patterns even if they're not there. That's why we have constellations. It's why I found a naga in the clouds on my drive over."
Pushing my mug away, I shook my head. "I still don't want to watch that."
"You don't have to. But tell me again what happened. Every detail."
"I did!"
Dr. Pawar pushed the laptop to one side, keeping the screen turned away from me. "Tell me again."
"She jumped and..."
"Her name was Nathalie Braugher," he said. His cup scraped the table, and he touched the rim of it. "Now, start from the moment you stepped off the train."
My thoughts whirred, imagining the video he said he had. I saw myself standing on the platform, looking for Dad. There was steam, and then Brandon appeared. My memories were a grainy flipbook- Brandon veered around Nathalie, god, she had a name. My heart sank when I saw myself following him.
It was like it was happening all over, and what could I do about it? I couldn't change anything, but there I was, walking over to her. Putting my hand on her to ask if she was okay.
"She was crying," I said, flinching when Brandon approached on the other side. "And he wanted me to walk away. He said it right in front of her. Like she wasn't there."
Then it happened. The woman- Nathalie, grabbed my hands. I felt the imprint of them all over again; tasted the sweetness of her breath. It mingled with the scent of the tea and I wanted to vomit.
"Go on," Dr. Pawar said calmly.
"I'm trying!"
And I was. I already knew what happened, why did I have to say it? Why did I have to remember her dying again? It happened fast, even in my mind.
Brandon's arms around me, the woman losing her grip; I heard her croak. My ears screamed with metal and steam and I tried to scrub it all away with a damp handkerchief.
"Now." Dr. Pawar said. "Tell me what happened when Brandon grabbed you."
"Why are you doing this to me?"
He held a single finger in the air in front of me. "You said, as soon as she put her hands on you, Brandon picked you up. Go through it again."
Clutching the edge of the table, I said it again. Then again. I forced the words out of my mouth, through the desert of my throat. My voice rose with spite and frustration. "He picked me up and jerked me around. Like playing airplanes! We went all the way around! When he dropped me, she was already-"
"Yes?" Dr. Pawar asked, his dark brows peaked.
I felt a hitch in my chest. I rolled my memories back one more time, thinking them over before saying anything. She grabbed me, Brandon picked me up... and he pulled me away. We spun around, away from her-
Then, then Nathalie stepped in front of the train.
I murmured, "Our backs were to her."
Turning his hand over, Dr. Pawar offered it to me, but made no move to actually touch me. "You were there when she died. In some small way, you participated. Your mind will try to fill in the gap between these points. But this is the truth: you didn't see her die."
But I put my hand in his. I felt hollowed out. No, drained. As if I had been filled to bursting with something awful, that had finally spilled out. I sank in my chair and breathed. And relaxed. Murmuring, I said, "It's still terrible."
"Yes," he agreed. "It is. Would you still like to go back to Chicago?"
The question startled me, and I pressed my lips together. I still wasn't crazy about spending the year with my cold father. But there were still things I wanted to do. See Pompey's Pillar, and learn how to camp. Climb a mountain, walk through a ghost town- see the wild, everything.
If I'd known about the next body, I would have said yes. Send me home, yes.
I think.
But instead, I wavered and said, "Maybe. No."
(brandon)
For a couple days, everything was fine.
I didn't see Parker around. She had a bunch of stuff to do before she started school. I had a tutor, but she was going to Lewis & Clark School. Cold Mouth was so small, all the grades went there.
I was back to my normal, taking care of the horses, helping the dads put brochures and stuff together. Everything was good at Stone Well. Everything was quiet.
"Brandon," Elspeth whispered, when I walked past her room. She peeked at me, the door open just enough that I could see one red curl, one brown eye, and two fingers curled around the frame.
"Yeah?"
Elspeth closed the door. Then reopened it to say, "There's someone out front."
"Who is it?" I smiled at her. Sometimes when she thought somebody was out front, it was a raccoon. Or a horse. Or wind in the grapevines and creeper that coated the house. She could see just enough of the drive to get her going.
"He has boxes," she said. "And he's making a terrible racket."
I told her, "I'll check, okay?"
"Thank you," she said, and closed the door.
I waited a second, and tried not to smile when she appeared again. "Yeah?"
"Also, I'm out of firewood."
Then, she slammed the door, so I knew I could move on. The funny thing was, when Elspeth came out of her room, she was ordinary as anything. She didn't look like somebody who screamed at the muse to get out of her soul so she could work.
Whistling to myself, I headed to the front to check the porch. I was surprised to open the front door and find boxes and boxes sitting there- just like Elspeth said.
Leaning out to look, I didn't see a truck or nothing. Nobody'd knocked, and that was kind of crap, but whatever. Leaning down, I ran my fingers over the thick layers of postage. It was Parker's stuff, from Chicago.
Without thinking, I picked up the biggest box and brought it inside. The way the cabin was split up, me and my dads and the guests stayed on the east side. Right in the middle, there was a narrow hall that led to the west side, and that's where Jon lived for now. Parker too.
But I didn't know which room she'd picked. I touched each door, searching for signs of her. Halfway down, I started to feel like I was doing something wrong. This half of the ranch was private, even though it wasn't before. I shouldn't've been there.
Ignoring that, I unlatched the furthest back room and caught my breath. All the linens were ours, but the room already smelled like Parker's skin. Everything was different. Warm and sweet.
She had a framed picture by her bed, a half-read book. Her sheets were all twisted, curled around the last place she slept.
My chest tight, I put the box down. I wasn't supposed to look at her things. My hands weren't allowed to pick up the t-shirt she'd left crumpled on the bed. I didn't have to raise it to my face to know it smelled like her. To know it was soft.
Swallowing hard, I turned to get the rest of the boxes and crashed into Parker.
"What are you doing in here?" she asked, holding me off and picking herself up. It wasn't hard to read that expression- she was pissed and scared, all rolled up in one.
I felt hot everywhere. Pulling my hands into my sleeves, I circled away from her. I wanted to explain. I had the words in my throat. Your stuff came. I was just carrying it back. I didn't touch anything. But they wouldn't come out.
Her eyes cut me. "Seriously?"
I waved my elbow at the open door, and walked away as fast as I could. She'd see the box. That was a good explanation. I wanted to run, all my adrenaline and anxiety told me to. But this one little part of me begged to turn around. To talk to her.
"Hey, when did this come?"
My voice broke. "Just now."
She hesitated. "Oh. Okay. Thanks."
As she turned again, I managed to add, "The rest are out front."
"Thanks," she said again. And even though I recognized the slope of her shoulders, and the sway of the hips, I couldn't tell what she was thinking. All I knew is that she wasn't afraid of me anymore, and that opened the trap in my throat.
"I'll get 'em. They're kinda heavy."
She smiled. I fell.
(parker)
Back to school was back to normal. Sort of.
Walking up, I dodged a couple of kindergarteners and smiled weakly. Back home, the first day of junior year would have been Me and Leah, rolling up in Orpheus, already knowing where to go. Already knowing how we'd spend the last year before graduation year.
Not in Montana. I stood on the walk and took in my new normal. Raising my cell, I took a pic, and forwarded it to Leah so she could savor the weird with me. I captioned it haunted mansion amirite?
Because Lewis & Clark School was an old, stone mansion- at least on the outside. It had wings and columns, all these elegant up-and-down windows. It was like somebody picked it up in England and plopped it in the middle of a two-street cowboy town.
I followed the curved stairs inside, expecting- I don't know. Like, lords and ladies or something- it was stupid, but that's what I expected. Instead, it was all floor wax and chalk, new shoes and soap- inside was just school.
Pulling out my schedule, I scanned my classes. Suddenly, a hand clamped around my wrist. The school melted away; all I saw was the train station and green eyes. Without thinking, I slapped at the hand.
"Hey now," a boy said, pulling me back to the present. He was tall, rose and gold.
"Sorry," I mumbled. Way to make myself look like a freak in the first 10 seconds. But he didn't seem to mind. He draped an arm over my shoulders, and waited to see if I would slap him again.
When I didn't, he pulled me into the current of students flowing through the hall.
"You must be our Yankee," he said smoothly.
"Uh," I said, because I was a genius like that.
Inarticulate must have turned him on, because he smiled. "Eric Kelly, at your service."
"Parker." Coming to my senses, I tried to shake his hand. "Parker Nixon."
He brushed the gesture off. "You don't sound like a Yankee."
"That's because I'm from Chicago."
His face lit up. "Ah, the Cubs! Sorry about that."
"Yeah, don't be," I said. I ducked from beneath his arm. It was just a quick shift, from one side to the other. But it made me feel like I was in control of myself again. I walked with him because I wanted to. "We'll have our day."
A swoop of girls interrupted. Tossing her black hair over her shoulder, one said, "Taking her."
"Take a leap, Eric," the other said. She looped her arm through mine, and before I knew it, they'd swept me down a corridor.
The air was sharper here, pungent with bitter chemicals. I caught a glimpse of an anatomy chart in one of the classes; a stuffed raven glowered at me from the front desk in another.
"Say hello to Zoe Davis," the black-haired girl said, gesturing at her friend. Then, she touched her own chest. "I'm Kyra Bear Crane, and don't listen to Eric. Ever. About anything."
My head spun with other people's drama. "Why?"
Zoe curled her nose, sucking her teeth in disdain. "He's a liar, mainly."
"I... I didn't know."
"How could you?" she asked. "Just got here, didn't you? But that's all right."
Kyra led us to an alcove, and flopped on the bench there. Her hands danced in her lap, rings flashing on her fingers. She was smooth and beautiful, coppery dark next to Zoe's moonish silver. "Just to get it all out of the way at the first..."
"Don't," Zoe said. She shot me an apologetic look, then sat down with Kyra.
"Are you going to be a pain in the ass?" Kyra asked. "Because of your dad?"
Confused, I frowned. "I don't know what you mean."
"I told you not to," Zoe said, but Kyra spoke right over her, studying me with black, liquid eyes. "Look, it's no secret he's J.S. Mann. And Zoe and I can keep our mouths shut. We're a vault."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said, and I didn't.
Zoe groaned. "Kyra, god, you made us sound like screaming fangirls."
"We know," Kyra said. Her voice came down like a gate. "He writes Nightwish? Oh, hi. Don't blow us off. It's common knowledge."
To everybody but me.
It would have made more sense if they'd said my dad was a spy, or fifth in line for the throne or something. The Nightwish series was about this changeling prince and his high school girlfriend. It was stupidly popular, especially since the first movie came out. There was manga- there were lunch boxes.
And I was drowning in someone else's lies.
Apparently, my dad had been doing a lot more than hiding for the last six years. With a deep breath, I said, "He left when I was a baby, and we haven't seen each other since I was ten. I don't know much about it."
"No," Zoe said, leaning forward. "Yes? Really?"
"Really," I said. I hitched up my backpack. For two seconds, I thought hard about running away. From school, from home- from my life. But where would I have gone? As neutrally as possible, I said, "I should find my class. First day and everything."
Standing, Kyra took my schedule and skimmed it. A subtle change touched her lips. She softened, and the warmth came through when she said, "This isn't too bad. Come on."
"What's she got?" Zoe asked.
"Astronomy with you, it looks like."
Zoe flashed me a smile, and tugged my sleeve. "Beastly!"
And like that, I had friends. I had classes.
I had normal.
(brandon)
"You're the best boyfriend," Hannah teased.
Nodding, I curled my arms under her and lifted her onto Arthur's back. She was ten, and I could probably carry her on my shoulder all day and never feel it. "You're the prettiest girlfriend."
"Liar."
I acted like I was hurt as I handed her the reins. "My love is true."
Throwing her head back, Hannah laughed. Her eyes sparkled, and I grinned as her occupational therapist stepped between us. The OT led her out of the stable yard. Hannah threw a look over her shoulder, and I waved, as sappy as I could.
She looked like soft wax candle. Topped with a red scarf, her face wavered, her brows and lashes and lips melted away. She didn't have ears, either. We got the side saddle special because she lost a leg in the fire.
"You're good with her," Dad said. He put a foot on the fence, leaning on the top rail as we watched Hannah head out to the pastures.
Shrugging, I said, "It's not hard."
"What's your temperature, Brandon?"
That's what he always asked, instead of how are you. Probably because he meant more than hey, how ya doing? Drumming my fingers on the fence, I squinted out to the pasture again and said, "It's different, having Parker here."
"And why's that?"
"I don't know."
It was a lie, and it wasn't. Of course it was different. It was somebody else at dinner. Somebody else to pass in the halls. I coulda said that, and that woulda been enough. But I felt full with something more.
My hands burned, because I wanted to fold Parker's in them. My mouth stung because I wanted to kiss her. And I almost didn't mind that I couldn't. It was almost enough to just feel it.
Like always, Dad was quiet when he said something big. "What would you think about going to school one day a week?"
"No."
Even though my answer was instant, Dad waited for me to think about it. His pale brows lifted, and I swear, he even smiled. Just the corner of his mouth. Like he thought I was funny.
My chest burned, like I couldn't get a breath. Stone Well was good. It was quiet if you didn't mind screaming poets and coyotes much. I had my room, and my schedule, and I liked it.
Not too many strangers came out, and so far, the only one that did, I liked having around. Without thinking, I pulled my sleeves over my hands. "I'm doing all right with the tutor, though, right?"
Dad made a thoughtful face. "Yes. But Teddy and I think it would be good for you."
"That's what you said about going to the train station."
His little smile widened, like he was embarrassed. "I admit, that didn't go the way we planned. But I don't think that's a reason to dismiss this out of hand."
Something ticked under my skin. I felt like a bomb, and I walked away a minute. I made work for myself, rolling up some rope that was already rolled just fine. Straightening a feed bag that hung center anyhow. When I turned back, Dad was still at the fence, quiet and calm.
"What would I take?"
Dad climbed to sit on the top rail of the fence, stretching toward the sun. We'd had a lot of it lately, bright days, no clouds. It was kind of an automatic rule- soak up the light while it lasted. "Algebra. English. Music, maybe?"
"I don't know," I said again.
The last time I was in school, I was maybe nine. I don't even think I was nine. It smelled like oranges and puke. Ball point ink smelled like blood; everybody stared. I come up out of nowhere, and I stayed six weeks.
Nobody talked to me. I didn't talk to them. Everything I knew was too much. They were perfect and clean and I didn't belong. I was close to glad when I got pulled out. Sort of. It was complicated.
Breaking into my thoughts, Dad hopped off the fence and walked toward the barn. Off handed, he said, "It's just something to think about."
"Okay," I said. I wasn't gonna promise anything, not even to think about it.
He clapped the top of the fence and stepped back. "When you're done, maybe you can pitch me a couple?"
I rolled my shoulders, maybe yes, maybe no. I still had rope to tie, and straw to lay. I had to be there when Hannah came back from the fields, and needed somebody to put her back on the ground.
That was my job, and my place, and it was good enough. I could take care of the horses forever. I would take care of Stone Well when I was the only one left. Nothing had to change, ever.
Except, there were new curtains in the west wing, and a new face at the table. A new taste in my mouth that was something like fire and lightning. Maybe everything had already changed.
Maybe that was okay.
(parker)
The bus dropped me at the end of the driveway after school, so I had a half a mile walk just to get home. More than ever, I missed my car. I texted Leah, then my mother, then Leah again. It was pathetic; I was waving a red flag, I'm here, I'm here, don't forget me!
Leah finally replied- she was in class, she'd get back to me. The time difference struck again. Quietly lonely after a day that had felt close to normal, I put my cell away and plodded up to the porch. I was startled when I reached for the front door, and it opened on its own.
"Hello, Parker," Dr. Pawar said. His surprise faded, replaced with a smooth smile.
Hesitant, I looked around, then asked, "I didn't know I was supposed to see you again."
Dr. Pawar shook his head. "Not unless you need me."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"That's not really for me to say," he told me. Then, he squeezed my hand. "But since I am here, how are you?"
"Good."
He smiled, already moving away from me. "I'm glad to hear that. Have you been to the train station?"
"Uh..." I shook my head. "No."
Unfurling his keys, he said, "You should. I could go with you, if you like."
"I'll think about it," I said and slipped inside before I had to commit to something.
After the way he made me tell the story over and over, I knew where he was headed with that: listening to trains scream until I didn't care anymore. But I had homework, and new friends, and old friends calling me back later. I didn't want to go over tragedy again; I was ready to forget.
I found Brandon standing in the kitchen when I came in. Dumping my bag on the counter, I ducked around him to see what he was making. He smelled good, and my stomach fluttered. "Apple dip?"
"For the horses," he said. "Carrots, next."
"Mmm, my favorite," I joked, and opened the fridge. Inwardly, I wondered if it was cologne, or just his skin. If it was regulation cowboy- I was losing my mind. He was just a guy. Tall and strong and heroic, good with animals, yeah, but... I shook it off again. "So do you know who Dr. Pawar is shrinking around here besides me?"
Still slicing, Brandon nodded. "Yes."
Amused, I tried to catch his eye. "It's Elspeth, right?"
"No."
Silence hung between us. It was full, like the quiet could burst at any moment. Embarrassed, I ducked into the fridge again. Nothing was familiar. Yogurt instead of pudding, rhubarb instead of celery, and what was ginger beer, anyway?
While I searched, I listened to the knife caressing the cutting board. It thrummed steadily, a whisper and a hum. Again, once more...
Giving up on the alien offerings in the fridge, I shut the door and caught Brandon looking at me. He flicked his gaze away, pulling his shoulders up, like that could make him smaller. I had news for him. He was way over six feet tall- nothing could make him smaller.
"Going around," I mumbled. I put my hand on his arm, before slipping behind him to get to the pantry.
His warmth radiated; he was so tall. I wanted to press my face against his back. Breathe him in through Hoodie #521; wrap my arms around his waist like he'd wrapped his around mine. Only this time, nothing terrible would happen. Before I gave into crazy and actually did it, I threw myself at the pantry.
Forcing myself to talk, I said, "School was different."
"Was it?" He tossed another chopped apple into the bowl.
"Yeah, I walked in and got hit on, which never happens," I said. "And then a couple of girls saved me. We ate lunch together at a roadhouse. That was weird."
"Which part?"
I smiled over at him. "The roadhouse part. I guess you're used to it."
"No."
"Oh," I said. "You haven't been at all?"
He shook his head. "No."
Then, without thinking, I said, "You're kind of amazing at stopping a conversation in its tracks, did you know that?"
And instead of being offended, he smiled. No, he didn't just smile. Something came on inside him. Like, there wasn't only light, there was delight. And then he played into it, because all he said was, "Sorry."
Was it a challenge? It felt like a challenge, so I propped myself against the counter and watched his face. "The horses can't eat a whole apple? Their heads are giant."
"Yes."
"Yes what? Their heads are giant?"
"Yes."
"Okay, then... you just chop stuff for fun?"
Brandon dragged his lower lip through his teeth and looked up at me. "Yes."
"So which part gets you excited?" I asked, inching my fingers toward him. "The cutting?"
"No."
I laughed incredulously, "The apples?"
"The sound," he said. Before I could steal a slice, he trapped my hand with his. His fingers were so rough; they caught on my skin. What would they be like on my cheek? Tension and terrible possibility sang in the air.
Then, abruptly, he pierced some apple with the tip of the knife blade. He turned it up, offering it to me. "Do you want a bite?"
My voice unsteady, I said, "Yes."
And this time, he didn't pretend to watch anything but my face. His eyes seemed to shift, gold to green beneath his dark-furrowed brows. His lips parted slightly when mine did, and it stripped me.
When my pulse ran fast, it was a wild mix of fear and pleasure. I didn't know what to do with that combination, so I snatched the apple from the knife and darted around him. "I have homework."
"I don't," he called after me. "Just homeschool."
Hooking my backpack, I swung to face him. "Don't get chatty now. You missed your chance."
"Sorry," he said.
And he smiled.
###
I'd had texts, and voice mail, and even a flurry of e-mails. But when Mom finally called, I broke down completely.
It was relief, mostly, and homesickness for her buttery voice. For our evenings, when I'd sit on the floor, and tell her my day while she cut tight braids into my hair.
I missed her strong, sure hands, her pinches and her hugs. The circle around me at Stone Well was so wide, it was like treading water in the dark.
Telling her everything finally scraped the last of the horror out of me. Like, once my mom knew, I could be okay again. Trading e-mail about it hadn't been enough. I had to say the words and hear her murmurs, to finally be okay.
"So yeah, welcome to Cold Mouth, right?" I settled into the window seat. Smoothing the silk scarf over my hair, I peered at the sunset. Golden streaks threaded through the meadow, reaching for me around the shadow of the barn. The same shade as that woman's eyes.
I looked away. "That was messed up, Mom. He didn't even come get me, and he's... weird."
Mom hummed on the line. "It's an adjustment, baby."
"What if I don't want to adjust?"
My heart sank when her humming stopped. "Everybody has to, Parker. That's life. And your father's part of that."
"He barely talks," I said. "Did you know about the Changeling books?"
She shifted, starting to answer from far away, and I could tell she had picked up a glass of wine to sip. "I knew. Are you mad?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Maybe I shouldn't have let you buy that t-shirt," she hedged.
I bugged my eyes out. "Oh hi, forget the t-shirt. Maybe you should have mentioned that Stephenie Meyer and my dad are BFFs."
And then my mother laughed. "I doubt they know each other. Your father keeps to himself, Parker. He always has; there's a reason his real name isn't on the cover."