Choke: 2 (Pillage Trilogy (Pillogy)) (5 page)

She looked at me until I was self-conscious and then sniffed, “Once a Pillage, always a Pillage.”

“If you and I ever get married, I’ll go by Agatha,” I suggested.

“Disrespect,” she snipped. “Your wit will burn you someday.”

I wanted to tell her about all the times my wit had already burned me or caused me problems, but she walked off and left me alone again.

It had been almost six days since the plant had jumped me. A number of my scratches had healed leaving only the deeper ones visible. They too were beginning to fade. My brain was going numb from being kept locked up in the stupid hospital. Wyatt had called me once and we had talked on the phone for about an hour. I thought back to our first bad encounter and how he had turned into a great friend. He claimed he wanted to come visit me but that his parents would never bring him. When I reminded him that he had a driver’s license and his own car, he confessed to being scared to death of hospitals and since I was going to live, he would just wait to visit me when I wasn’t in one. I couldn’t totally blame him. I wasn’t that fond of hospitals either.

It rained all day again and just as afternoon was beginning to make an appearance, Wane entered the hospital hall pushing an empty wheelchair.

I was so happy I almost jumped out of my bed.

Wane’s dark hair was really short, showing off her long, thin neck and small ears. She was smiling as if it were something she was supposed to do and not as if she were enjoying it. She was pretty and one of the few adults I had ever met that I thought had any style.

“Ready to go home?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said quickly. “I mean I’ll miss all the activity here.”

Wane looked around at the empty hall and tried to laugh. “You have to leave by wheelchair,” she said. “‘Insurance reasons.’”

“I don’t mind being pushed around,” I said, while throwing my legs over the side of my bed.

“I brought you some clothes,” she said, handing me a bag. She turned around to give me some privacy. Inside the bag was a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, some unmentionables that I won’t mention, a pair of shoes, and a silk vest.

“Let me guess,” I guessed. “Thomas packed these clothes.”

“Just hurry,” was all she said.

As soon as I was dressed, Nurse Agatha came in and had Wane sign some papers. I told Agatha that I’d miss her, and she said something about youth being seen and not heard. Once she left, Wane just stood there staring off into the distance.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Fine,” she replied with a sigh. “You’re the one who’s been hurt. Come on.”

I plopped myself down in the wheelchair. Wane grabbed my pillow and the small bag someone had packed for me. She set them both in my lap, and without turning the wheelchair around, she began to pull me backward. I looked at the empty beds and the glass ceiling as I moved in reverse. I felt like I was traveling back in time, back to the moment before I had made the extremely poor decision to blow up the velvet balloon. My life was running in reverse. Wane said something, but it sounded warbled, like a record playing backward.

We moved through the double doors and Wane spun my wheelchair around. Like the wing I had been in, this area was empty and silent as well. Wane pushed me down a thin ramp and out two more wide double doors.

I could instantly feel the light rain on my face as we stepped outside. The smell was a fantastic mix of fresh dirt and water. The often-present mist of Kingsplot wrapped around me like a wet, but familiar friend. I felt like I had just been paroled from a life sentence.

Wane helped me into the car as if I were some unknown kid whom she was babysitting. She closed the door behind me and returned the wheelchair to the front desk. When she climbed back in, she didn’t even look at me. She started up the car and pulled away from the hospital.

“You know, if I had my license, I could have driven myself home,” I pointed out. I had been begging my dad to let me get my license, but something about the thought of me driving made him uncomfortable. He had told me to bring the subject up again in a few years.

Wane didn’t reply.

“You’re so quiet,” I said.

“Nothing to say, I guess.”

So we drove in silence. It had been almost a year since the dragons, and Kingsplot was busy and almost completely put back into place. And there were still a few places where construction could be seen. There were a couple of buildings on the edge of town that were not going to be rebuilt so they just sat there as new ruins.

“I bet Millie’s mad,” I said.

“Millie’s fine,” Wane snipped.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked.

“Beck,” Wane grumbled. “Do you even have to ask?”

“What?”

“You almost tore apart our town and now this.”

“I didn’t know the ball would explode.”

“What did you think it would do?”

“I thought it was just a big ball,” I said lamely. “We were going to roll it out and let everyone play with it.”

Wane shook her head.

“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t wait to get home and visit Kate. She’d be nice to me.

“There’s a limit,” Wane sighed.

“You’re not the one who usually gets mad at me,” I pointed out.

“Well, I care about this place. And you,” she tacked on.

We wound up and out of Kingsplot. The road grew thin and we threaded through dark tunnels as we climbed up the road. For the past few days all I could think about was getting back home. Now, however, I wasn’t so sure. My dad, Aeron, was still adjusting to being a father, and even though he had been mostly kind to me, I knew he had a side to him that was a bit unsteady.

We passed a couple of the other large, tree-covered mansions and finally pulled in through the open gates and drove down the long winding driveway toward home. The huge mansion dwarfed any of the others around. It rose from the trees as we turned the bend, its seven stories pushing up into the wet, gray sky. Gargoyles leaned down at us from the roof, and fat, black clouds dotted the top floor, circling the copper dome where my father spent much of his time. I couldn’t see his shadow up there, but then I didn’t really have a great view of it. We drove through a stone archway and circled the large, twisted, snake-shaped fountain. Wane pulled up to the back door and stopped the car.

“Hop out,” she said.

“You’re not coming in?”

“I’ve got things to do.”

“Is my father home?”

“I’m sure he’s somewhere in there,” she said ominously.

“I don’t . . .”

“Hop out, Beck.”

I got out of the car feeling like a jerk. My stomach and legs were heavy, and I felt guiltier than I had in a long time.

“It was just a balloon,” I mumbled to myself as I shut the car door. “And a shed.” Wane pulled away and I yelled after her, “It was just a shed!”

The serpent-shaped fountain gurgled and spit.

“Whatever,” I said, brushing it all off.

I pulled open the back service door and walked into the one kitchen we actually used. Millie was there rolling out dough. She looked up, shook her head, and went back to rolling.

“You too?” I asked.

Millie tisked. She looked at me with her wrinkled, old face and opened her mouth as if to say something. Her mouth closed and she wiggled her head slowly. My stomach felt even worse. I liked Millie. She was like the grandmother I had never really had. She was less skinny than fat and one of her eyes didn’t sit quite right. She was crotchety, but kind, and could cook better than anyone I had ever known. But now apparently she was giving me the silent treatment.

“I really am sorry,” I pleaded. “I didn’t think what happened would happen.”

Millie grunted.

“I’m okay,” I pointed out. “That’s something, right?”

Millie sniffed. I could tell she wanted to be kind to me, but she was trying hard to appear tough.

“I feel so loved,” I said.

“Beck,” she scolded.

“It was an accident.”

Millie shook her head.

I tried a different approach. “Thanks for the plant.”

“It was the least I could do,” she said.

I thought about telling her what her “least she could do” had done to me, but I let it go. I walked out of the kitchen and down the hall.

I climbed to the next floor, stepped across the large empty room to the larger stairs, and climbed up to my room. Everything looked almost the same as when I had last left it. My bed was still there, and it had been made up by someone. The windows were clean, but my old, unreliable, wind-up alarm clock was gone. Sitting in its place on my nightstand was a new battery-powered one.

I threw my things on my bed and turned around. I needed to talk to my dad. I walked quickly to the stairs and began the climb. My father had been spending some time down on the main floors, but he still spent most of his days up in the damaged copper dome that sat on top of the mansion. Our relationship was not like any father and son I had ever seen in a commercial or movie, but I loved him, and I think he loved me.

I reached the door leading into the dome and knocked. I could hear some shuffling, and then it was quiet. I knocked again, this time louder.

“What?” my father yelled in reply.

“It’s me,” I shouted.

“Come, come.”

I pushed open the door, and a strong breeze from the open windows swirled around me. Some of the dome had been torn at by the dragons, and my father had done a poor job of repairing it. There was wood and wire sticking out of the walls and cracks in the floor. My father was in the center of the dome sitting in a stiff chair, leaning his head back. In his lap was a large book. His eyes were closed.

“I’m home,” I said.

“That’s stating the obvious,” he said, without moving or opening his eyes.

“I’m fine,” I said, bothered by his reaction. “In fact, I’m great. That vacation was just what I needed. Oh wait, that’s not completely true. I’m a little tired from all the kindness and well wishes everyone’s been giving me.”

“You’re being funny, aren’t you?” my father asked.

I growled lightly.

My father opened his eyes and moved his head to look at me. He was wearing a red silk robe with gray slippers and a long cap that made him look ridiculous. He had also shaved his beard.

“You seem to be attracted to trouble,” he said.

“Yeah, she’s really pretty,” I replied.

“Your tongue is sharper than mine ever was.”

I stuck my tongue out and tried to look at the tip of it.

“You could have killed yourself,” he said. “And that young woman you associate with.”

“Kate.”

Aeron nodded. “Regardless, we’re glad you’re home.”

“We?”

“The staff,” he clarified. “And me, of course.”

“Of course.”

I don’t know what my deal was, but I was ticked off. I know I messed up, but I had been in the hospital for over a week. The concern and caring from the few people I cared about was pathetic. Would it have killed my father to stand up and put his arm on my shoulder and tell me that he was glad I was home? Where was the “Welcome Back” pie that I had envisioned Millie making for me? Where was Thomas offering to help me up the stairs as if I were still in bad shape?

I looked out the windows and up toward the surrounding mountains. In the far distance, beyond the back gardens and past the conservatory where I had once grown dragons, I could see the long, wide field of stones. My mind flashed back to the visitor at the hospital.

“Some people stopped by,” I informed him, “at the hospital.”

“I would have come, but I’ve been busy,” he said.

“I can see that,” I answered, looking around. “One of the visitors was that reporter I told you about, Van. He came back to Kingsplot just to check up on me.”

“People love to stare at deformity.”

“I guess,” I said confused. “The other visitor was an older man and he asked about the stone.”

My father sat up straight.

“He thought I had it still,” I added.

“Did he tell you his name?” my father asked cautiously.

“No,” I answered. “But he was wearing a robe with orange circles on the sleeves and he was whiter than anyone I’ve ever seen. Plus he had a sword. I might . . .”

It’s always kind of funny to see older people move fast. I mean, usually you just see teachers and parents going about their business at a normal speed. Occasionally you’ll see some grown-ups jogging, and if you’re unlucky you might experience the embarrassment of watching one of them dance, but for the most part, they just act like slow regular beings. So I found it rather humorous when my father jumped up out of his chair and began mumbling and shaking loudly. I made a mental note to always move slowly when I got older. My dad grabbed my shoulders. It wasn’t quite the hug I had been expecting, but it was something.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“That’s not important. What else did he say?” my father demanded.

“Nothing,” I insisted. “Like I said, he wanted the stone.”

“Did you tell him where it was?”

“I said I destroyed it.”

“Was there anything else about him you can remember?”

“I couldn’t see him very well. But his lips were all cracked and flaky.”

My father swore. He pushed me as he dropped his hands from my shoulders. Then he spun around, dropped to his knees, and began to rummage through some papers next to his chair and his wood trunk. I guess he found what he wanted because he yelped and stood up.

“Silly, huh?” I added.

My father stared intently at one of the papers in his hands. “Plays are silly,” he said without looking at me. “This is serious.”

“So who was . . . ?” I tried to ask.

“Are the stairs clear?” he snapped. He was always concerned about there being items blocking the stairs in our house. It was as if he imagined I got a thrill out of shoving couches and
tables onto the stairs.

“The stairs are always clear.”

My father twisted, grabbed his stick, and dashed out the door. The door slammed behind him, and I was alone in the dome.

“Welcome home,” I sighed.

I returned to my room and lay down. My hope was that when I opened my eyes things would be less crazy.

It was a silly thought.