Skylight (Arcadium, #2) (34 page)

Maybe it’s the
just being overwhelmed with happiness. Maybe it’s pure exhaustion.
Maybe it’s the conversation of twelve words I had earlier with
Kean. It play on a loop my mind.

“Don’t talk to
me,” he says, eyes down. “Just don’t.”

“But...” I
don’t understand. Everyone’s alive. We all got what we wanted.

A bitter laugh
escapes him. “How could you do that? After everything we have been
through?”

There’s nothing
I can say. We both know it.

He draws in a
sharp breath. “All I know is that I will never trust you again,”
Kean says. Then he turns and walks away.

The next
morning I find myself standing on the balcony on my own, getting
some fresh air. Kean hasn’t said one word to me since our last
short conversation, and I don’t want to push it. I mean, I did
almost bash his brother’s head in. I suppose it doesn’t matter that
I was trying to save my sister. But how was I supposed to know
she’d become immune, and that Henry would cure himself off her
blood. How’s anyone supposed to know that? I figure if I give him
space he’ll come around. I mean, how long can he stay mad at me for
choosing my sister over his brother? If our positions were reversed
I’m sure he wouldn’t give Liss a second thought.

At least
Trouble seems pleased as punch about having Liss back. Henry is
too.

Liss wanders
out the open sliding door and stares at me.

“How did you
sleep?” I ask.

“I didn’t.”

“At all?”

“Nope. I’m not
even tired.”

That’s when I
remember what Jacob said about not being able to sleep any
more.

“Oh. What did
you do all night?”

“Just waited to
fall asleep.” Liss says, looking at her hands as if she’s never
seen them before. “Am I a vampire?”

I lift my hand
to shade my eyes from the sun, and I smile. “I thought this stuff
was supposed to make you more intelligent.”

She winks at
me. Which is creepy. Because I know she was just pretending. Just
making a joke. And it’s creepy because I don’t know the
intellectual bounds of my little sister anymore. She used to be a
bumbling, curious, naive nine-year-old with the attention span of a
goldfish. I look at her now and see her mind working so quickly
it’s a blur.

But she’s here.
And I’ll take any weird side effects over her being dead, even if
that does sound kind of selfish.

“Hey, do you
know who the guy is — who — he keeps saying, um…” Liss puts on a
funny deep voice. “No, no, no, no, no.”

I frown. “What
are you talking about? What man?”

“Yeah, I know
that man. Who is he, Florence?” Henry says, walking out the door.
He stops and puts his hands on his hips and then does a twirl. It’s
quite a magnificent sight really, since a week ago he was
permanently wheelchair bound.

“I have no idea
what you guys are talking about.” I smile at Henry. “Hey, did you
do something with your hair? You look taller.”

Henry grins the
proudest grin I’ve ever seen. “Yeah, it’s definitely the hair.”

“But the man’s
dressed in a curtain and he’s on a bed. He’s got those ties I had
on me. And he just keeps saying—”

“No more,
please, no more!” Henry says.

“Can we help
him?” Liss says.

I look between
them, still confused. “Where exactly did you see this guy?”

Liss and Henry
both point to their heads at exactly the same time. It’s like some
weird little military salute for the extremely underage.

“And what does
he look like?”

“Black hair,”
Liss says.

“Dark eyes,”
Henry says.

“His
reflection’s all warbly in the metal.”

“Ooh, and he’s
got a beard.”

“And he’s
wearing a curtain.”

“You said that
already,” I say, butting into their rapid fire.

“I know.
Thought you missed it. So can we help him?”

This is so
confusing. “Are you talking about Jacob?”

Liss
shrugs.

“Oh, yeah,”
Henry says. “Kind of does look like him.”

“We already
did.” I try not to think of the fate in store for Jacob. If he’s
still sitting in that room, if they’ve found him already. If he’s
even still alive. “Remember that guy that came to the door not long
ago?”

“Yeah.” Liss
says. “He was fine, wasn’t he? That’s good.”

I’m not exactly
sure how to explain that they might be thinking of a memory that
isn’t even theirs. I’m sure it’s Jacob and it’s nothing he ever
told me. But maybe I can understand him just a little bit better.
I’m sure now that whatever he did, he did it for a damn good
reason. If he hadn’t been so mysterious maybe I would have trusted
him. It is slightly disturbing though that Liss is carrying
memories of his experimental torture, but then I guess in a way, he
lives on through Liss and Henry. He saved them and they both saved
a little bit of him in turn. I think Jacob would have liked that,
being a deal man and everything.

Henry looks at
Liss and she nods. He takes out a piece of paper, neatly folded,
and passes it to me.

“What’s this?”
I hold back.

“Just so you
know, I forgive you for healing Liss first,” Henry says. “And for
bashing my infected self in the head with a lamp. It’s all cool
with me.”

“Okay.” I don’t
say any more on the subject, but it means a lot to me hearing him
say that. I take the paper with raised brows.

“Kean gave it
to me before you guys left. He said if anything happened to him I
was supposed to give it to you. And well, he’s being a tool, so I’m
giving it to you and there’s nothing he can do about it.” Henry
looks for an escape route. “And now I have to do something… inside.
Right now. It can’t wait.” He spins and Liss does too but then she
remembers something and leans in, right up close to my face. She
stares at me with her newly modified blue eyes.

“I don’t have
to marry Henry, do I?” she whispers with a serious expression.

“No,” I say,
shaking my head very slowly. “Why?”

“Okay.” And
with that she disappears and I’m left alone with this note on the
balcony. Oh yay.

I don’t read
Kean’s letter straight away. I hold it in my palms and then carry
it in my pocket for the rest of the day, unable to bear it.

In the
afternoon, Trouble finds me standing in exactly the same spot. He
puts his hand on my shoulder and doesn’t say anything. We stand
there, staring out into the forest, side by side.

After some time
Trouble says, “Everything will be all right.”

I pull a fake
smile for his sake and nod. But I don’t think it we’ll be okay this
time.

It’s not until
late at night, when the house is quiet, that I step out onto the
balcony and light one of the citronella candles. I set the paper on
the railing and unfold the paper slowly. I try not to look at it,
so I stare upwards. There’s a precious little quarter moon, sitting
in a milky puddle in the night sky. I don’t really want to tear my
eyes away from it. I don’t want to read the words Kean wrote when
he was in love with me. But there’s no choice, is there?

Florence,

If we weren’t stuck in
this apocalypse, I know we still would have met somehow, and that I
would have taken one look at you and just known. I would have kept
asking for a date, and I say this because I think you would have
turned me down the first few times. Am I right? Why do I ask, I
know I am. But eventually you’d give me a chance and we’d have a
hilarious time. I’d charm you with my knowledge and good looks. I’d
wait until the five-month mark of serious dating to say I Love You,
even though I’d have known it since date three. We both know I
would have said it first, no arguments on that one.

I’d take you to fancy
dinners on our anniversaries, make you picnics on your birthday and
give you breakfast in bed every Sunday morning. Seriously, EVERY
Sunday. You’d laugh at all my jokes, I’d tell you you’re the most
beautiful girl in the world. Henry and Liss would be best
friends.

I think I’d give it
five years before proposing, because I’ve decided that five’s our
lucky number. I’d do it somewhere quiet and simple. Under a tree on
a sunny day, and I’d have hidden a bottle of super expensive French
champagne there a few hours earlier. We’d have to drink from the
bottle though because I’d forget the glasses. And you wouldn’t even
care that it’d gone warm. I’d give you a light green ring (whatever
jewel that is…if it even exists) — the colour of my eyes, naturally
— and it’d be ringed with diamonds, just in case you really wanted
diamonds too. You’d have final say on the venue, though I’d
campaign strongly for an outdoors ceremony. We’d have a caramel and
white-chocolate cake, if you didn’t mind, but just so you know my
mum would have wanted to make it so you would have been totally
obliged to accept it anyway. You’d look stunning. So would I.
People would probably faint in the isles at our awesomeness. We’d
probably have to call ambulances, but what can you do?

We’d put a deposit on
a little yellow house on the Mornington Peninsula and spend the
next fifty years paying it off. Our neighbours would all be nice.
Especially the Chinese man, whose name neither of us could
pronounce so we’d designate him a nickname, and his smiley and
incredibly talented family.

We’d get strange jobs
and stick with them. I’d be a professional lifeguard and you’d be
an ice cream taster that only had to work Fridays because my salary
was so great and bountiful. We’d talk about getting a pool but
never get around to it since the beach is just down the road. We’d
have one or two or three or four kids — that’s up to you since I
don’t really have to do any work until they come out. Failing that,
we’d get a dog and a fish. But I’m pretty sure we’d have two
insanely beautiful and slightly stubborn (that’s from your side)
children, and the daughter of the incredibly talented Chinese man
would baby-sit them on Saturday nights. And then we’d decide to get
that pool. Lucy would be an Olympic gold medalist in every stroke
there is and Timothy would be an astronaut. And naturally they
would buy us a convertible.

Now, because they’d
spent so much time together, Henry and Liss would get married too,
and buy a house just around the corner. And every week or so we’d
have tea in the garden and discuss whose children turned out
better, and whose lawn is greener. And we’d always win, of course.
And they’d marvel at our pool, which we’d probably have to let them
swim in occasionally, being the nice older siblings we are. Then
we’d get old and you’d dye your grey hair slightly purple and wear
trendy beige and pearl coloured clothes. I’d wear Hawaiian shirts,
much to your horror. And I would probably age like a god, and
pretty much just look like a marble statue just with silver fox
hair. I’d have to, just to compete with you.

For your hundredth
birthday I’d buy you the biggest cake and literally stick a hundred
candles in it (even though by the time I got to light all of them,
the first ones would have burned out already. Don’t worry, I’d find
a way). And you’d think it was so funny. And everyone else would
just be like “cut the cake already!”

We’d sit on the porch
on summer nights, too old to walk to the beach, but you’d still be
able to smell the sea from our house. We’d eat chocolate all day
and not care because we’re old. We could do what we liked.

Then one night after
we’d done all our traveling and living and passed on our fantastic
genes to many generations to come, we’d curl up in bed and sigh
ourselves into the afterlife at exactly the time. And no I did not
steal that from a movie. Okay maybe I did, but there is no other
way to go really, is there?

Maybe you planned
something like this, Florence, maybe you didn’t.

Maybe you can’t live a
lifetime in the few minutes it took to read this, but then again,
maybe you can.

Just know that
whatever distance comes between us, I will always be in love with
you. If I make it to heaven, I’ll keep watch. If I become a ghost,
I’ll haunt you… in the nicest possible way. If I become a star,
I’ll make sure you’re never left in the dark. If none of those are
viable options and there’s simply nothing on the other side, then
I’ll become a smile and every time you miss me you just have to
smile and I’ll be there with you.

Look after the others
for me. Especially Henry. But then, I know you will. And if anyone
came with me I’ll look after them. You have my word.

Until we meet
again,

Kean

The love in
this letter is as dead as any corpse, and this is the only proof it
ever existed: inked onto fragile paper. One day it’ll be gone too.
It makes me wonder why we do these things if they just get taken
away from us. If they just end up breaking our hearts.

But that’s the
thing, isn’t it? We can’t help it. We’re human.

It’s funny, the
way we’re equipped with everything we could ever need to
communicate effectively and honestly, and we still can’t do it.
Even with body language and vocal chords, speech and writing, it
seems we can’t ever say what we really need to. What we really mean
to. When we really should. And in that way we’re no better than a
bunch of infected, shambling around together, occasionally bumping
into one another. Because it seems to me that the only time we say
anything of significance is when we’re threatened with death.

And all I can
do is stand here, holding this piece of paper like it’s the heart I
ripped from Kean’s chest. All I can do is stand here in this
strangely quiet oblivion, knowing that the Kean that went over the
railing in Skylight never really came back.

Born and raised in New Zealand,
Sarah Gray spent her teenage years in Australia, where she raced
go-karts, studied graphic design and then sports management before
deciding that all along she’d just wanted to be a novelist. After
studying professional writing and editing in Melbourne, Sarah moved
to England and became an outdoor activity instructor, writing in
her spare time. These days, Sarah likes to travel and write and
resides in Lincolnshire.