Gypsy (The Cavy Files Book 1) (23 page)

The panic scrubbing Reaper’s face of color, causing violent trembles in her fisted hands, says we’re headed down a shaky road, and I close my eyes, wondering if this is how I’m going to die.

If, years ago, I would have touched my friends and all of our numbers would say 16 or 17.

Then Pollyanna reaches out, grabbing onto Reaper’s fingers. Using our powers on one another might be verboten, but Polly’s never been averse to breaking that rule—and the unbelievable sense of calm that bubbles through me says she’s flaunting it now.

It’s like floating on the river in an inner tube on a summer’s day, staring up at the sky with nothing to do but ponder the workings of the universe. Everything that’s happened since we left Darley seems far away, inconsequential. The searing fear over Flicker’s injuries, her containment, will work itself out. We’ll be fine.

We’re all in a similar stupor, with goofy smiles that barely hold because our muscles are too relaxed, when the sound of our families exiting the house creeps over the marsh grass.

Pollyanna double-checks Reaper’s face, then her pulse, and a moment later the calm happiness releases its grip. The worry and betrayal and helplessness of the past hour tumble back in, but they’re somehow easier to deal with now. Like seeing them one at a time in the wake of clear thinking makes them surmountable.

“Thank you,” Reaper whispers, her eyes still shining with tears.

She blinks them away for good this time, and we all change our shell-shocked expressions for ones of greeting or, in the case of the twins, a decent attempt at not looking annoyed. Our families and guardians—the ones who have chosen to be here today—stroll toward us, looking as comfortable as they can be, given the situation.

Goose whips off his jacket and covers the swipe of blood on the table before anyone sees, leaving me to wonder whether they’ll have to explain it later or, once it dries, it will be as though Flicker never appeared at all.

Haint’s grandmother smoothes her hair, then sits down between us. Her grandfather squeezes in on her other side, making a Haint sandwich. She favors the elderly woman, making me wonder what her parents looked like and where her father is now. If they wished things had turned out differently.

Mole and Pollyanna try to escape down to the marsh, but the twins’ dad has none of it, offering them food from his picnic basket and insisting they stick around for his famous dessert. My father sits on my other side, making five of us crowded on one bench, but since only my clothed hips and covered arms brush against him or Haint’s grandmother, it feels nice. Warm. Loving.

Reaper’s dad smiles a lot, although he casts more than one concerned glance her direction. If she’s been this open with her abrasive unhappiness with us, it’s hard to imagine how she’s been at home.

In unspoken agreement, none of us bring up our pasts, or the syringe incidents, or demand answers to all of our questions about where we were born. We laugh, the adults tell stories about the people who aren’t here that make us tear up or smile or finally see little bits of ourselves in someone else. The food—fried chicken, ham and cheese grits, mac and cheese, fried green tomatoes, and kale salad—is rich and lowcountry and delicious. It draws us closer together, knitting the fabric of our loose connection tighter.

By the time evening falls and we say good-bye, it’s the tiniest bit easier to believe that Gypsy, Mole, Haint, Reaper, Goose, Pollyanna, and Athena could become Norah, Shiloh, Becca, Eve, Hosea, Tate, and Theo.

The thing is, there are people out there determined not to let us, and after the better part of two weeks in the real world, I’m no longer sure I want to be someone else, anyway.

By the time we’re in the car on our way back to Charleston, Flicker dominates my thoughts. We haven’t spent a ton of time with her over the past five years, but she’s still a Cavy. And with only ten of us, there isn’t much that means more than that.

Her appearance today, and subsequent disappearance, lends a sense of urgency to our search—even more so than our own attacks. She’s injured, maybe dying, and the pulsing, screaming impotence of not being able to help makes me pull out my phone and text Jude, telling him we’ll be home by seven and he can meet me, if he still wants to study.

In the spirit of gathering lost pieces of the puzzle, I turn to the immediate source of information. “What do you know about the place where my mother gave birth to me?”

I have to convince my tongue to hang on to the question. A sixth—or in my case, a seventh—sense writhes, sure that involving my father could be hazardous to his safety. But there’s no other way. We need information, and we can’t get it all on our own.

“What do you want to know?” He flicks a glance at me, hands gripped tight around the wheel.

“What kind of place was it? Who owned it? A charity? A church?” I pause, watching his reaction, then press. “A little more about my mother would be nice, too.”

I haven’t asked until now because it’s hard to tell whether he’s holding back for my sake or because he’s dealing with his own issues. We’ve had enough to deal with without adding another emotional bomb to the mix.

“I’ll tell you everything I remember about your mother. I wish I knew more.” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing several times, and taps out a slow rhythm on the steering wheel with his thumbs. “As far as the place you were born, I’m not privy to any details. I’d be willing to put you in touch with Abby’s parents, with the very serious understanding that you not let those people make you feel badly about yourself.”

The words jab, like tiny little darts with poisoned tips hitting every exposed inch of my skin. My mother’s parents, the ones who—according to my father—forced my mother to act against her will, could know more.
Must
know more.

Flicker’s pained expression, the hot, red blood pumping from her gut, coat my feelings in steel. If my grandparents have the answers, then I’ll talk to them. “Okay.”

“Promise. Promise me you won’t listen to anything hateful.” His face shades red, and his fingers have stopped tapping and returned to their death grip on the wheel.

The sum of the picture amps up my dread. “I promise.”

“Fine. I assume they’ve seen everything on the news, and that the social workers contacted them as well, but it’s best if I talk to them first. Give me a few days.”

“Okay.”

He quiets, not speaking again until his face cools off and his fingers resume their lazy drumbeat. “Your mother was the girl every guy in school wanted to date. Not the most popular. Not even the prettiest, maybe, depending on your idea of those kinds of things, but man, there was something about her. She made everyone laugh.”

“I make people laugh,” I murmur, letting a sense of wonder lighten my heart. “But not always because I mean to.”

He gives me a wry smile. “That second part is from me, I’m afraid.”

“It’s true. M— Shiloh’s like that, though. Everyone’s favorite.”

“You’ve been at a new school for a week and you’ve made friends. That’s your mom.” He smiles. “And one day, she walked right up to me after a school play and asked me to the Sadie Hawkins dance.”

I can picture it in my head, even with only photos and a few sentences to go on. She wouldn’t have been shy at all; he would have been blushing. My heart squeezes a little at how easy it is to see them both in myself. “And you said yes.”

“You’re damn right. I thought she’d made a mistake or something, but she wanted to take
me.
We dated for the better part of our sophomore and junior years. Fell in love, I guess.” He sighs, emitting an aching wistfulness into the car. “That’s when she got pregnant. Sent me a letter from a place called Saint Catherine’s House explaining everything.”

I force my breathing to stay normal. It’s the same place Mole and Polly were born.

“I went to your grandparents’ house, begged them to reconsider, but they threw me out,” he continues, unaware. “Filed a restraining order.”

His fingers squeeze, then flex until they pop, as though he’s reminding himself to calm down.

“What was she into at school?” It’s as if I’ve spent seventeen years in the desert, desperate for a drink, even just a drop, and now that I’m within reach of a waterfall I never want to stop gulping.

It’s good we didn’t mention anything to our parents en masse. This way, I get to find out more about my mom while figuring out if my father knows anything about Saint Catherine’s, or what happened to her there.

“Abby? Everything. She was a cheerleader and editor of the newspaper. Student council, too, but not the president or anything. Oh. And she loved acting, mostly to piss off her mother.”

“What else? You must have tons of stories.”

“Not many I’m comfortable sharing with a teenaged girl, strange enough. Maybe in ten years.”

He chuckles, and I do, too, even though it’s a little awkward. I know he’s talking about sex, and it’s kind of cool knowing that he’s not going to avoid certain topics with me, but still. It’s not something I’ve ever discussed with someone who isn’t my age. The Cavy discussions are pretty general, since none of us know anything firsthand.

Jude’s face flashes behind my eyes, an attempt to pull my fantasies down the road of normal teenaged life, but I throw up a block. I’ve got enough on my plate without wasting hours daydreaming about a guy who could never understand me.

Who’ll barely live long enough to try.

“She loved graveyards, too. They were her favorite spots in the city. Some people think they’re creepy, but she thought they were peaceful. I’d find her studying there, or reading a book on a blanket. Sunday afternoons were like a treasure hunt. Among dead people, but still.”

“I like cemeteries, too. The one by my school is extra mysterious.”

“The Unitarian? Yeah, your mom thought so, too—the only one I know of that she didn’t like going into at night, but she’s not alone. Plenty of people get the willies just standing outside, myself included. We’ll have to go on a ghost tour some time; they’re pretty interesting. At least one of them goes past the Unitarian gates.”

“And tell the story of Annabel Lee?”

“Yep. One of your new friends tell you about that?”

“Maya.” I smile, thinking of that first day of school and her rendition of the life and death of Lavinia Fisher. “She’s a good storyteller.”

“Well, she’s a Charlestonian. It’s in our blood, especially if the story involves local history.”

“How did she die? Abby?” Even though I whisper, the words explode in the car like fireworks, loud and bright. I need to know, for the Cavies, but I don’t really want to hear. I want to think of her alive.

“Degenerative brain disease that attacked her limbic system, then the rest.” He swallows hard and taps his head lightly. “I don’t think they ever diagnosed it before it spread.” He swallows. “We lost touch after she came back from that place.”

“How long ago did she die?”

“About five years after you were born.” He shakes his head, slowly. “Too damn soon.”

We’re quiet for a while, shadows taking over the car as the earth spins away from the sun. The trip home goes faster than the drive to Beaufort, probably because of the anticipation this morning. It’s not that late, but the stress of the day has me struggling to stay awake as we sit through a stream of stoplights on the south side of town.

“What kind of lawyer are you?” A yawn distorts the end of my question, proffered in an attempt to keep my eyes open.

“Me? Immigration.”

“Did you always want to be a lawyer?”

“No. When I was considering it, a lawyer friend of mine gave me some advice. He said you should only go to law school if there’s absolutely nothing else you can imagine yourself doing.”

“And you couldn’t? Imagine anything else?” Imagining a future, what I want to be, feels like asking for too much when I can’t last a week without my past poking me in the neck. Literally.

“I used to want to be a musician.”

“What happened?”

“Well, it turns out I have no talent.” He yawns this time and punches the button that lets us through the gate and into the driveway. “That realization made for a brutal day.”

I think about what he said while I brush my teeth and wash the outside smell off my face and hands. It’s kind of sad, to think that my father is only a lawyer because he can’t play an instrument or sing. None of us Cavies have ever dreamed of being anything other than people who can do weird, occasionally dangerous things. At least, if they have, they’ve never confided in me.

A glance at the clock promises that Jude will be over any minute. I discard my dirty jeans and my shirt that smells a little like a swamp. In the box of my mother’s things—my dad had kept them after he’d picked her up at the home—I find a soft pink sweater and pull it out and over my head, toss on my second pair of jeans, and head downstairs to wait.

Chapter Seventeen