The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare (17 page)

“And what is it you're working toward exactly?” I say through the perception of a clogged nose. “Why are we here, Porter?”

“Because I need your help.”

“With what?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. “It's complicated.”

Of course it is.

I groan and fist my hands. My nails bite into my palms. I'm too exhausted and upset to sit through more of his riddles and nonsense. I need to get away, to go somewhere where I'm allowed to cry and smash things.

I push myself to my feet and lift my chin. “I want to go home.”

The lines around his eyes sag. His shoulders slump under the weight of my glare. “Certainly.”

Within seconds, light rushes in all around me, and my soul slips free from the black like a suction cup. We're both back at Ristorante Cafferelli. The Polygon stone is still in my hand.

No time has passed at all.

I shove the stone into my backpack, and push my chair from the table.

“I'm sorry,” Porter says again. He pulls a small white card from his pocket and hands it to me. “When you're ready to talk again – if you're ready to talk again – call this number.” The card is blank except for a small phone number embossed in black.

I take it and stuff it in my backpack. I glance down at the bright yellow flyer on the table. “What are you going to do about that?”

It takes a moment before Porter realizes what I'm talking about. I can tell he still feels awful for making me go back and erase everything – it's pressing on him, making it hard for him to concentrate.

“I'll take care of that later.”

I still don't know what he means by that – does he have to go back in time and leave it at the garage? – but I realize I don't care anymore. I heft my backpack over my shoulder and storm toward the door.

I don't look back.

CHAPTER 13

 

 

When I get home, I drop my backpack by the back door and collapse onto a stool at the kitchen island. I peel off my parka and scarf, pull my glasses off, and bury my face in my hands. My body feels like it hiked the length of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I guess traveling back in time almost a hundred years can do that to a person.

The house is quiet and still. Gran must be out shopping. Pops and Audrey are probably napping. Claire is still at school, and Mom and Dad are at work. The silence gives me a little time to think of an excuse for bolting out of Mr Draper's class a few hours earlier. I figure playing the sick card is the best way to go.

I slide my glasses back on and trudge into the bathroom to give myself a once over. I brush out all the blood from my hair and comb it over the knot on the back of my head. I still have the bruises on my ribs, and a few on my arms, but my sweater covers them up. The only sign of my injuries are a few tiny scratches on my knuckles. I don't think anyone will even notice.

I head to the family room and slump down at the computer. My arms feel like sodden logs. My fingers pause, resting on the keyboard, wondering if I should go through with what I'm about to do. An Internet search on Nick could bring up a whole host of crap I'm not sure I'm ready to deal with. But I have to know. Did I ruin his life? Did I change it somehow, the path he was meant to take, all because I barreled into his world, selfishly wanting to prove Dr Farrow wrong about the visions? Or did I fix everything by erasing our night together?

I had to know how his life turned out. Did he live a good life? Did he join the Police Academy? Did he fall in love? Get married? Have kids? Are his grandchildren and great grandchildren living somewhere in Chicago? Did Frank ever turn his life around? Did Helena live to a lovely old age, rocking her grandchildren to sleep?

If it was a good life, I think I could forgive myself for being such a selfish ass. For playing with something that shouldn't be played with. Granted, I didn't know I was altering time and history when I traveled to Chicago the first time, but the second time...

God, I just didn't care, did I? I was too caught up in all of it. Too wrapped up in what it felt like to be normal, hanging out with friends, getting into trouble, kissing beside fountains, not worrying every minute of every day about grades and bullies and a sister who has trouble keeping her dinner down. It was an escape. The most selfish of all selfish escapes.

I type in his name. At first, there are no results for Nicholas or Micolaj Piasecki. Mostly because it takes several tries before I spell the name correctly. Finally, though, I spot one result.

An obituary.

Nick's name is written in bold capital letters across the top. There are no sentimental words, only facts. He was survived by his mother, Helena, and brother, Frank. The funeral was held at the St Stanislaus Kostka Parish.

Nick died on Christmas Eve, 1927, from six gunshot wounds to the chest. It was believed to be the work of the Cafferellis, due to Nick's involvement with the Fifth Street Gang. He was found in the back of the deli delivery truck he drove for Old Man Nowicki.

Two months after I walked out of his life.

I cover my mouth with my hands. A sharp breath rakes through me. I knew he would be dead and gone, but I didn't expect it to happen like that. Not to someone so young.

Someone so good.

I grip the keyboard with both hands, wanting to break it in half. I could've changed things, but Porter wouldn't let me. If Porter hadn't made me go back and erase my night with Blue, my impact could've changed the course of his life. I could've saved him. Given him more time. He wouldn't have continued to work for Fifth Street. He'd made a promise to me, but I erased that promise.

He wouldn't have gotten murdered on Christmas Eve.

I march back to the kitchen and yank my cell phone from my backpack. I fish around for Porter's business card, then punch in his number.

He picks up after one ring. “Alex?”

“You knew, didn't you? You knew Nick would die if I went back to erase everything.”

“Slow down–”

“How could you let me find out this way? Why couldn't you at least let me warn him?”

“I don't know what you're–”

I hang up on him, too disgusted to hear his voice or his excuses. I turn off my phone in case he tries to call back.

I wind aimlessly through the house, anger and grief twisting inside me, until I find Audrey asleep in Gran and Pops' bed. Her thin body is curled onto her side under a threadbare quilt, a pale blue stocking cap pulled low over her ears and forehead. Pops snores away in the wingback armchair in the corner, his head lolled back, his chin twitching under his short, scraggly gray beard. I pull my glasses off again and drop them on the bedside table. Under the quilt, I slide in beside Audrey and hide my face against her warm, bare arm. The tender darkness tries to coax tears out of me, but I'm too furious to give in.

I thought I'd be happy, thankful even, to know the true reason behind my visions. Now I wish I'd never sought the answer. Never gone to see Dr Farrow. Never met Porter at the cafe.

Audrey stirs when she notices I'm beside her. She stretches her arms above her head and rolls over to face me. “You're home early.” Her keen gray eyes notice something's wrong right away. “What is it?”

I shake my head and press my face into the pillow. It smells like Gran's lemon verbena and Pops' pipe smoke.

“Did you have another bad dream?”

Audrey's the only person I ever told about the visions. I told her they were dreams so I could go into all the details without sounding like a complete psycho. She always liked hearing about them, but I don't want to talk about this one. If I could have it my way, I'd forget it ever happened.

“No,” I mumble. “Felt sick so I came home.”

She smooths my hair from my face. “Did you call Daddy and let him know?”

My reply is a groan in the pillow.

“OK, OK,” she says. “I'll let you be.” She's quiet for a minute or two, then says, “Except…”

I lift my head. “What?”

“Weren't you supposed to walk Claire home from school today?”

Applesauce.

 

 

I make it to Claire's school only a few minutes late. She's at the playground hunched over on a swing, twisting around in circles, then spinning free. All the other kids are filing onto school buses or into their parents' minivans.

I stick my fingers in my mouth and whistle for her, and her head pops up. She scoops up her pink backpack and races toward me. Her super straight chestnut hair swings behind her.

“You're late,” she says.

“I know.” I start back home the moment she catches up. “I got sick. I left school early.”

“Did you call Daddy?”

I groan again, this time out loud. At least I have two annoying sisters to help keep my mind off Blue and Porter.

“When are you going to get your license?” Claire asks, half-jogging to keep up with me. “You need a car. Madeline's sister has a car. She picks her up every day.”

Madeline's sister is none other than my bestest friend in the world, Tabitha. “Well, Madeline's sister doesn't have to pay for her car. So that makes it easy.”

“It's a convertible.”

“How nice.”

“It's black.”

“Ah, the same as her heart.”

We turn a corner and continue down a tree-lined sidewalk. Blazing yellows, oranges, and reds pave the path under our feet.

“You could fix up an old car like you did for Daddy.”

Even though I appreciate Claire's confidence in my fix-it skills, I still reply with, “I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

I push my glasses up. “Because I'm not going to waste money on something I'd hardly ever use. I like walking.”

Claire kicks at the leaves in front of her. “I hate walking.”

“Then you buy a car.”

“Hey, look,” Claire stops and waves at a car headed our way. “That's Madeline's sister.”

I pull her arm down, but her other one shoots straight up.

Tabitha pulls up beside us in her black BMW convertible, one wrist resting on the steering wheel. Her blonde curls lift in the wind, then settle around the shoulders of her too-tight cashmere sweater.

Jensen Peters sits in the passenger seat.

“Hey, Wayfare,” he says with a half-smile. I expect the sound of his voice and his attention to make my stomach flip like it usually does, but it doesn't affect me at all. If anything, it makes the sting of what happened with Blue hurt even more. “What happened back there in Mr Draper's class? You OK? Do you need a ride?”

Tabitha slides her diva sunglasses down to the tip of her nose. “Yeah, Wayspaz, need a ride?”

Claire leaps up to the side of the car. “Yes! Can we ride home with you and Madeline?”

Tabitha shrugs like it's OK with her, but I pull Claire back. “Absolutely not,” I say. “You don't get into cars with strangers.”

“They're not strangers,” Claire says. “They go to our church and your school.”

“That hurts, Wayfare,” Jensen says with a pretend pout. “I thought we were friends.”

Friends. Right. Didn't he know it was his rumor that started me on this all-expenses-paid Freak Ride at school?

“She wishes,” Tabitha says with a laugh.

I give her a sarcastic smile, thinking of all the ways I can turn her BMW into a heap of scrap metal. If only I had a socket wrench…

“Oh, come on,” she says, draping her arm across Jensen's shoulders. Her manicured fingernails play with the honey blond hair at the back of his neck. “I'll give you a ride. No skin off my nose.”

Claire jumps for the car again, but I snag her by her backpack. “No, thanks.” I pull her away and start for home.

“Have it your way, Freak.” Tabitha peels away from the curb, but her trademark insults don't bother me as much anymore. Once you've been in a gang fight, been shot at with Tommy guns, traveled to Limbo and back, had your first kiss erased from existence, and let a friend die because you couldn't save him, a few stupid names are a drop in the bucket.

Just a few blocks from home, Claire says, “Madeline said you can't drive because you have seizures.”

“Oh, give me a break. Not you, too.”

“She also said if you had a car, you'd want to ride on Jensen's lap in the back seat.”

“What?” I stop short and stare at her.

She shrugs her shoulders up to her ears. “I don't know. That's just what she said.”

“You better not repeat that to Mom and Dad.”

“Why not? Is it bad?”

I push her out in front of me so I can walk by myself. Big sister time is so over.

 

 

By the time we get home, I'm so confused and frustrated and annoyed that I don't notice Mom's car in the driveway. Claire runs inside to catch her stupid after-school TV shows, and I almost smack right into Mom when I walk through the kitchen door.

“What's wrong?” I blurt out, knowing something's up right away. She never comes home early. And it couldn't be because I cut class. Dad never calls in reinforcements for things like that. So it must be about Audrey.

I bristle at the thought. Audrey looked fine when I left to pick up Claire, but what if I was too busy thinking about Blue and hating on Porter that I didn't notice something was wrong? “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Mom says, palms out to calm me. She must know what I'm thinking because of the panic written on my face. “We just had a security breach at work, that's all.”