Chasing Wishes (30 page)

W
hy am I even doing this? I wonder for probably the hundredth time during the long taxi ride north from Union Station in New Haven. I know Isaac won't be there, but somehow, I have to go anyway. I stare quietly out the backseat window and watch the falling snow fly past in a white blur. The gray of New Haven qui bun w Ickly fades into the distance, replaced by the skeletal trees north of the city—the forest overlooking Glen Lake, where Isaac used to live.

I never could stop thinking about him, never once in the five years since I last saw him. When winter break arrived this year at Connecticut College, I knew I had to come back. I had to see his old house again—less a home and more a palatial advertisement of obscene wealth—and maybe somehow find him here waiting for me. I already know he won't be here, though. I don't know how I know it, but I do.

A red gift bag sits beside me, almost bursting at its seams with festive, glittery tissue paper. The bag's way more exciting than its contents, but it was all I had in my dorm room when the idea struck me about ten minutes before my train.

Isaac hid Christmas presents in my locker every year when we were young, but I never had enough money to do anything for him in return. I glance inside the bag at my meager offering, and the idea suddenly seems so stupid. Why would he want these? It's... the whole idea was idiotic.

He won't be there anyway
, I tell myself, but it's not much of a consolation.

The taxi lets me out at the curb in front of Isaac's mansion, and the first thing I notice is the sign sticking out of the mountain of snow left behind by the plows. I can only see the top left corner, but I know exactly what it says: Sotheby's Auctions.

I shake my head in a mix of bemusement and disgust as I slog through the deep snow. The rich don't even sell their homes the same way as us mere mortals, do they? I bet this place isn't listed in any public buyer's guide.

"Wait for me, please," I tell the taxi driver. "I won't be long."

The once decorative topiary bushes that lined either side of the house’s front are overgrown and misshapen, the trees lining the long driveway are long-neglected, and even the once elegant ivy that covered the facade is withering now. In my mind, I try to reconcile my memory of the gorgeous palace of my childhood with the stark, depressing reality that lies crumbling before me. I can't—it's like a different place all together.

As I hurry down the long, icy driveway, I catch the heel of my boot on a loose cobblestone, dislodging it as I fall flat on my face. I hastily shove it back in place—that one little stone probably costs as much as my winter coat—and then notice a second and a third. Whole portions of the driveway's ornate cobblestones are loose or even missing. Nobody's going to notice one more among this mess, I suppose.

Nobody's bothered to salt the front stoop either, and I cling precariously to the railing as I claw my way up to the front door. You’d think, with all the money Isaac's mother has, that she'd pay someone to come out and take care of this damned place before someone breaks her neck and sues the hell out of her. I briefly entertain the thought of carelessly slipping on the ice, savor the feeling of cruel satisfaction and then immediately shove it out of my mind. It's a nice fantasy, but I'm not like that.

I don't remember the wide, wood-paneled double doors being quite so small or quite so fake looking. I remember it being a huge, imposing front entrance that towered over me when I came to Isaac's birthday party. I'm almost certain that it wasn't like this when I was younger. Everything's different and wrong... coming here was a terrible idea.

Maybe I should go back to the cab.

"No," I whisper. "I came here for Isaac. I have to find hhavumbim."

I take a deep breath, ignore the nagging voice in my head begging me to sprint for the taxi, and then finally push the doorbell.

Silence.

I shift my weight from foot to foot, tightening my grip around the raffia handle of the gift bag. The wind rustles the tissue paper and makes an uncomfortably loud crackle against the snowy hush.

I shouldn't have come back. This was a mistake
.

Just as I'm about to listen to my doubts, turn away and head for the taxi, a deadbolt turns and the door creaks open a few inches. A worn, unhappy-looking face peers out of the darkness, squinting against the blinding white of the snow.

"Yes? Can I help you?" Her tone is impatient and annoyed, brimming with barely-concealed arrogance. I'd recognize that voice anywhere—I still remember the tone from when I was humiliated at Isaac's party.

"Um... hello, Mrs. Preston. Sorry to bother you," I say, my voice coming out weaker than I expected it to as I fiddle. It's hard to maintain eye contact with her even after all these years. Something about the her disdainful stare makes me suddenly feel as if I'm not important enough to be here, as if I'm some pathetic gnat unworthy of even
thinking
of interrupting whatever she was doing.

"Well, you are bothering me, so get on with it," she answers, opening the door a little wider and glaring at me.

Isaac's mother is much smaller than I remembered her being now that I can see her better, and even though it's been only five years, time has not been kind to her. Her hair is dry and unkempt, and judging by the salt and pepper roots, she's long overdue for a re-dye. She's not wearing any makeup—not that it would do her any good at this point with all the wrinkles—but she's still wearing those same, enormous pearl earrings from Isaac's party. I wonder if she knows how ridiculous... no, how
pitiful
they look paired with her frumpy, gray cotton robe.

"Well?" she snaps, looking me up and down dismissively as if she has any right to judge my wardrobe. "I'm not going to stand here and heat the whole neighborhood!"

"Sorry," I stammer, pulling myself together. "I'm just wondering if Isaac came home for winter break. We went to high school at Woodbridge together but lost touch after graduation. My name's Skylar."

Skylar? Why the hell did I pick that name? It sounds just like the sort of name one of Sarah's snickering hyena friends would've had. Maybe that's why it came to me—it's the perfect pseudonym for someone like Mrs. Preston.

The lines on Mrs. Preston's face deepen as she frowns, and she straightens her posture and looks down her nose at me before answering. For a moment, I'm not sure she believes me. No matter what I tell her my name is—no matter where I went to school or what I say my connection her son is—she still sees that I'm still a short Hispanic girl. She still knows I'm not "the right kind of girl" for her son to be friends with, whether she remembers Nina or not.

"No, he's not here," she sniffs, finally deigning to answer me. "Haven't seen him in years, and good riddance."

My eyes widen in shock but I quickly regain my composure and put my Skylar mask back on.

"Oh? What happened?" I ask nervously. "Is he okay?"

"Not that it's any of your business," she answers, "but he cashed out his trust whe hih? What han he went off to college and then never even bothered calling home. He wasted a single stamp sending me a deranged, ungrateful rant of a letter, and then I never heard from him again. I can't say I'm sorry after all the trouble he gave me as a child, though."

She stares me down, her jaw tight and her fists balled as if she expects a fight, but I just stare back at her. I'm not here for a fight. I'm here to find Isaac and I'm floored that he ran off during college. I can't even imagine him doing something like that! Something must've gone seriously wrong.

"I’m sorry to hear that," I mumble, uncertain what else to say.

"I don't need your sympathy, thank you," answers Mrs. Preston, folding her arms across her chest and scowling at me in response.

"Do you know where he is now? Could you give me his mailing address?"

"Why do
you
care where he is?" she fires back, her pale face suddenly burning red with unexpected indignation. "Does he owe you money? Child support? Were you another one of his whores, like that little bitch he ranted about in his letter?"

She suddenly claps a hand over her mouth and goes silent as she realizes what she's just said, but it's too late to take the words back now. Her dirty laundry is out in the open and I know everything.

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek as I force myself to stay civil as outrage burns to life inside me. I tell myself to pretend I'm in high school, to pretend I have no choice but to stay meek and submissive like in the old days. Old habits die hard, and soon the fire is quenched and I can think clearly again.

"No, nothing like that," I answer, smiling serenely. I want to slap her for the insult, but she doesn't know I'm Nina and I'm not keen on her finding out. "I was just curious."

I'm
the 'little bitch' in Isaac's letter. I don't know
how
I know it, but I'm certain of it and I know exactly what his letter said. Isaac cut his mother off because of how she treated me—somehow I'm certain of it now. The only thing I'm not certain of is whether to feel honored or guilty. Isaac didn't forget about me when we lost each other after all—somehow, despite all my fears to the contrary, he still cared about me.

And yet you still can't find him,
whisper my doubts, raining on my parade and smothering the brief feeling of elation.
You'd think if he cared so much, he'd have found you by now.

"Well, I don't know where he is anyway," she sniffs, interrupting my downward spiral as she recovers from her social faux pas and rebuilds her haughty façade. "I'm afraid I can't help you."

"That's a shame. Thanks for your time, Mrs. Preston," I tell her, and I turn away and start my precarious descent down the icy stairs.

"Mind your step," she cautions me. "The grounds are... diffic
ult to maintain in the winter."

Her words say one thing, but the nervous pause in her delivery says something completely different. She can't maintain them in the winter because she can't afford it anymore. I bet that all those years of lawsuits with her estranged husband drained whatever fortune she once had, and that's why the house is up for auction.

"I'll be careful, ma'am," I tell her, looking back over my shoulder and offering her a sympathetic look. Maybe she doesn't deserve it, but I still pity her.

The front door sl fr, loams behind me, its sound muted by the winter snow, and I don't look back a second time. As I get into the taxi, I reach into the bag and pull out Isaac's pathetic present—a tin of homemade cookies I baked for him—and I grab one to munch on. There's nothing left here but the ruins of Isaac's past, and that's not what I came here for.

I came here to find Isaac's future, maybe even to be a part of it.

...and to give him his cookies. I still owe him a few.

M
arcus guides me down the long, glass hallway of my laboratories and into the main office, being careful to anchor myself to the table before he lets go of me. The results of our immune response studies are coming back today, and we wait side by side in anxious silence for Chen to arrive with the data.

I shift my weight back and forth from foot to foot and fuss impatiently with the top button of my shirt as if that's going to fool Marcus into thinking I'm not nervous. I'm more than just nervous—I'm outright scared that we'll have failed the study. If that happens, my little side project is sunk and I'm back to square one again.

I don't know why I keep calling it a side project when it's the second most important thing in the world to me right now. Perhaps my doubts are trying to convince myself that it isn't such a huge deal, as if distancing me from how important it is will make the inevitable failure hurt less.

I'm not going to fail
, I try to comfort myself, but I'm not sure I believe it. I hired an amazing team of scientists and stole a hell of a lot of technology from all the companies we worked for, but nobody's ever managed to make something like this work before. No matter how confident I am in our design, I have to admit that the odds are decidedly not in my favor.

A smile crosses my face as an image of Irene forms in my mind. There she is, the most important thing to me right now... I think. Sometimes it's her, sometimes it's Nina, and sometimes I can't actually tell the two apart anymore. My memories of Nina keep blurring into my image of Irene, giving her Nina's soft brown eyes and delicate features, and I don't know whether to feel guilty for sullying Nina's memory or for cheating on Irene in my mind.

No... I can't worry about that right now. I have to focus on the project today, and there's no time to worry about anything else.

I reach out and press my palms against the enormous schematic rolled across the table. It's always sitting there—according to Marcus, it's too big to fit anywhere else in the lab. It takes me only a few seconds of searching to find the edge of the design—a raised ink line left on the paper by our industrial laser printer. I follow the raised curve with my fingertips as if deciphering a map, tracing it in a large oval as I walk slowly around the table. I don't need to be able to see the blueprint to do this—I know every last part of the design by memory.