Some Quiet Place (2 page)

Two

I’ve been told that I cried as a child. I screamed when I didn’t get my way. I laughed and pulled my mother’s hair. I got into fights with my brother. When I hear these things, it’s as if I’m listening to stories about a stranger. The little girl I see in the pictures doesn’t really look like me. The physical details are the same, of course. The wild blond hair, the blue eyes, the smooth, sun-darkened skin. But if someone else hadn’t said that the little girl was me, I wouldn’t have known. It’s not that I don’t remember being so young … I just don’t know how I became what I am now.

There’s something missing in the girl I see in the mirror compared to the one in those pictures: a sort of soul. A light inside. Her smile is innocent. When I practice smiling, it looks puny and tight. False. Sometimes I think of it as the Caldwell mark; it’s how my entire family smiles, now.

I have knowledge few other humans have. They are unexplained and unwarranted, these ironclad truths. Yet I don’t know everything. I may be able to see the creatures that no one else can, I may know about the other plane, and I may understand the natures of humans and animals alike, but I don’t have the one thing I should have above all else.

I don’t know what it is to feel.

I can’t experience the freedom of grief, the abandon of ecstasy, the release of fury. And of course I can’t be curious about these experiences.

I don’t have the luxury of the people around me. I can’t weep, I can’t lust, I can’t cower in terror, I can’t celebrate. Not in a true sense; I’ve grown talented at the art of pretending. The only sensation I’m capable of—not an Emotion, but something physical—is a sort of … nothingness that’s always there.

The next morning, on my way through the kitchen, I pass framed pictures of the little girl on the wall and remember those stories. I adjust the strap of my book bag, contemplating that smile for what feels like the thousandth time. The bright eyes. I turn my back on her and glance at the clock on my way out. Late again.

Closing the screen door gently—Dad is out in the fields with the harvester but Mom is still sleeping—I attempt to put the pictures from my mind.

It’s a cold dawn. Fog hovers over the ground. Gravel crunches beneath my shoes. In the distance I see a shadow in the fields, the form of a man. But it’s not a man. He stands there, utterly still, and the fog rolls around him. Because that is what he is. Fog. Element. Other. More. I don’t just see the Emotions that wander the world—I see everything. I don’t pause to observe; it is something I have seen many, many times before. I throw my bag onto the passenger seat of my truck and hop in.

The engine rumbles as my truck bumps along the dirt road. It’s an ancient ’96 Chevy; I bought it with most of my babysitting money. The smell of gasoline permeates the air. I roll down the window and listen to the vehicle’s peaceful growl, feel the cool morning breeze on my face.

But a few minutes away from the house, my awareness sharpens and the brief stillness falls away. My eyes scan the trees alongside me; I sense something. Something else otherworldly. It’s the same sensation as when Emotions are near—my nothingness strengthens, hardens, prepares. But I don’t recognize this essence.

The minutes tick by, and I get closer to town. Nothing happens. Nothing appears. When I pull into the school parking lot the clock shows 7:59, and there’s still no reason for why my senses are tingling.

I pull the hood of my windbreaker up over my head as I walk toward the school doors. Under my lashes I take stock of my surroundings. There are the Dorseth brothers, roughing each other up near the wall—they’re infamous for their drugs and constant suspensions. There are the cliques that I don’t take part in. And there, sitting on the wall a little ways down from the Dorseths, is …

“Maggie,” I say, stopping. I instantly take note of the veins beneath her translucent skin, the trembling, the smudges under her eyes. Her ink-black wig shines weakly in the sun. “Maggie, you shouldn’t be here.”

She puts a book in her bag and stands, grinning. The smile has a contrasting effect; she’s wearing so much makeup it makes her eyes look droopy and hopelessly sad. “Well, hello to you too, bitch,” she says wryly. “I can tell you missed me.”

I know she’ll be hurt if I don’t reassure her. “Of course I’m glad to see you,” I intone, failing to correct the pitch of my voice before the words come out. “It’s been a long time,” I add, forcing a note of sincerity into the words now. I move forward and hug her. She’s like a bag of bones in my arms.

I step back to get a look at Maggie’s clothing; her choices seem to be getting more drastic. Today she’s wearing fishnet tights and a short skirt, complete with a chain clinking against her thigh. Her feet are covered by thick leather boots that are way too big. Velvet gloves adorn her arms to hide those jutting, pale hands. Her top … there isn’t much of a top to speak of. But she’s so flat-chested that the low neckline is a bit pointless.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” Maggie pulls away. I don’t respond, offering her a slight shrug. This girl who I call my friend slings her arm around my shoulders, steering me to the front doors. Even sick as she is, her grip is tight. “How I escaped from the asylum?” she presses. Her term for the hospital.

We’re drawing stares from others. I meet the gaze of Tyler Bentley, the star quarterback on the team. He barely notices me, but he’s looking at Maggie unabashedly.
What is she doing here?
I see him mouth. He doesn’t understand. None of them do. They think Maggie is an addict, and she lets them believe it. She even encourages it. She doesn’t want anyone to know the truth, because she doesn’t want to be pitied.

“Maybe you should go back to the hospital,” I say to her now. A friend should be concerned, and Maggie is deep into the cancer, reason enough for worry. Just getting out of bed is probably too much for her.

“So when do I get to see it?” she asks, ignoring me. She’s always been like this, jumping from one topic to another. Her lip ring glints.

“See what?”

“Hey, guys, wait up!”

Maggie turns quickly, her expression lighting up. The boy who called out runs toward us, then brushes past, heading for his friends a few feet ahead. I watch Maggie’s face fall. I’m not enough for her. She needs more. I know this. And yet where there should be remorse, regret, longing, grief, there is, of course, only me. The black hole, the white canvas, the empty room.

Maggie is already recovering, and she links her arm through mine as we navigate the halls of Edson High. I sidestep what looks like a puddle of soda. “I want to see your newest painting,” she asserts. “What are you working on?”

The bell rings overhead. “We’d better go to class,” I tell her. She nods, not bothering to force another smile or say goodbye. She’s already dwindling.

When the second bell sounds out—last chance to get to class—I stand by my locker and watch Maggie walk away, her tread trembling and uncertain. She’ll be going back to the hospital in less than an hour, no doubt. I may be able to understand human nature, and Maggie is stubborn enough to always get her way, but at this moment I can’t fathom what her parents were thinking this morning when they let her come back to school.

“Elizabeth Caldwell!” a teacher says sharply as she rushes by. I glance at her and wave, but we both know I’m going to be late again. I gather the materials for class, keeping one eye on Maggie making her way down the hall. In a moment, she’ll turn a corner and be gone from sight, probably the last time I’ll see her in a while.

I’m still there when she falls.

I hesitate for just an instant. I really should get to first period.
That’s not a normal reaction
, instinct nudges. Realizing this, I drop everything and run. The doors and posters on either side of me are blurs. When I reach Maggie’s side I go down to my knees, shake her shoulder.

Her skin has a more pronounced sickly tint, and her eyes don’t even flutter as I say her name. Her pulse is slow and faint. I lift my head. There’s no one else around but a skinny boy, and he stares at us dumbly. “Call an ambulance,” I order him. He fumbles around in his pockets and I turn my attention back to Maggie. It looks like she’s not breathing. I check her pulse again just to make sure she’s still alive.

It takes five minutes for the ambulance to arrive, and when the paramedics burst around the corner and spot us, they put a mask over Maggie’s face. They lift her up onto a stretcher, rattling off numbers and medical talk I don’t understand. When they take yellow Maggie away, I follow them. No one stops me; the hall is full now.

“She’s the girl that, like, doesn’t eat, right?”

“No, she throws it all up, I thought.”

My classmates’ hushed, speculative chatter fills my ears. I follow the paramedics outside, and so does everyone else. I go as far as the edge of the parking lot and watch the men carry Maggie hurriedly toward the vehicle.

A moment later, movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention and I turn to see Maggie’s mom rushing toward me. “What happened?” she asks in a high, trembling voice. Her grip is so tight on her purse that her knuckles are white, and her hair is a wild mess.

“She collapsed.” I’m not the only one staring at the commotion; the front steps are now littered with students. Their expressions are full of curiosity. Not concern.

“I was out in the car,” she tells me with a twisted expression. Emotions shimmer into view and stand close to her. Guilt, Worry. I’m careful to keep my eyes on Maggie’s mom. “I should never have let her come,” she babbles on, “but she wanted to so much that I thought maybe—”

The paramedics slam the doors shut behind Maggie.

“I’d better go,” her mom says, tearful. She touches my elbow before jogging toward her car. The lights of the ambulance, red and blue, swirl over the parking lot. I watch it pull out of the parking lot and squeal onto Main Street. Maggie’s mom is close behind in her minivan. Before they’re out of sight, I turn away. There’s nothing I can do, after all.

I’m one of the first to head back to class.

Three

I can feel Joshua Hayes staring at me again. I put my pencil down with a
click
, ignoring him. Our history teacher prattles on about the Revolutionary War. “It was when the outcome began to look worse for them that Washington made his move … ”

“Hey, freak.”

Sophia Richardson pokes me, moving quickly so Mr. Anderson doesn’t see. I glance up from my notes. “Yes?”

She raises her brows in a mocking imitation of interest, resting her elbow on the back of her chair. “There’s a football game Friday night. Are you going?”

Unlike the others in my class, Sophia doesn’t pretend I don’t exist. Her resentment shoves whatever instinct she has to the back of her mind. Which is why she taunts me with questions about football games and parties. Just like Fear, she waits for my answer even though she already knows it. I never go to social events. Not since Maggie stopped making me go.

“No, I don’t think so,” I tell her.

Satisfaction radiates from Sophia’s tight smile. She plays with the ends of her straightened hair and says casually, “No one wants to hang out with you because you’re—”

A crumpled-up piece of paper pops Sophia in the back of the head and she jerks, scowling. She reaches down to pick up the ball, scanning the room for the culprit. His head is bent down and he’s studying his textbook intently, but I suspect Joshua Hayes isn’t as innocent as he seems. Sophia must suspect it too, because she blanches. Tough as she may act, she’s had a crush on him for years. A crush that’s never been reciprocated. Then Sophia scowls, and when she turns her churning green eyes on me again, it’s evident she somehow blames me for all of it.

Everyone has a motive behind their actions. Sophia’s is based in pain and jealousy. I know a side of her she so desperately tries to hide. It’s obvious she’s tired today—she keeps rubbing her eyes and can’t hold back her yawns. Rumors circulate all the time, but I don’t need to listen to them; I know firsthand. Sophia’s little sister, Morgan, is autistic. She has a babysitter who stays with her during the day, but since Mrs. Richardson works long hours, it often falls on Sophia’s shoulders to look after her sister.

Once upon a time, Sophia considered me her best friend. I was over at her house a few times a week, playing dolls or whatever other game she invented for us. She tried to hide Morgan from me, deliberately dragging me to places that were as far from her as we could get. Until one day the babysitter brought Morgan outside for some fresh air and there was nowhere for Sophia to go, so I met the younger Richardson sister for the first time. And for some unfathomable reason, Morgan took to me like a drowning victim to a life jacket.

Things unraveled quickly. Morgan came in search of me every time she knew I was at her house, and she would scream if anyone tried to take her away. I didn’t care, of course, but Sophia was another story. She watched the two of us with narrow eyes and a pinched mouth. Her thoughts were written in every line of her face, visible in every movement. Mrs. Richardson started calling me when Morgan was in one of her moods. She asked me if I was willing to take over as her babysitter—which earned me the money to buy my truck.

Then, one day, the phone calls stopped. The invitations halted. And Sophia began to spend her time with other girls at school. She’d finally had enough. I think some part of her hoped I would grovel, fight for our friendship. But, being me, I did the equations. It wouldn’t work. So, since it would be fruitless to pursue anything, I went on my way.

Mr. Anderson has finally noticed the disturbance in his class and his piercing gaze shoots through Sophia, then me. I scoot down in my seat like a properly chastised student, and with one final glare, Sophia leaves me alone for the rest of the period.

The day passes quickly, and for a few hours everything is completely ordinary. I sit alone at lunch, I listen closely to the lectures, and I don’t talk to anyone in my classes. It isn’t until I’m back in my truck and heading home that I sense it again. That presence. I actually stop in the middle of the road, tasting it, tilting my head as I flip through my memories for a match to this essence. It’s no one I’ve met before, I realize. Yet there’s something so … oddly familiar about it. How can that be? And it isn’t trying to hide itself from me; it’s as if it’s calling to me, hoping I’ll try to find it. Is it an Emotion?

But Dad is expecting me home. The cows won’t milk themselves. I also need to make a call to the hospital to see how Maggie is doing—the normal behavior of a friend. Shifting back into first gear, I continue on my way home.

The presence stays with me until I pull into the driveway; then it leaves, a silent mystery.

I know it will be back.

Everyone has a purpose. There are those who are unfortunate enough not to know what that purpose is, and there are those that are bound by it, thrive in it, know nothing else.

Unlike humanity, Fear and all the rest like him have no governors or presidents or kings. They’re ruled by their own natures, which are hardwired into their every pore, vein, eyelash. And Emotions are not alone in their purpose. There is a design for every single thing. There is a being for Light, Song, Wind, Grass, Life, and Death. Winter, Spring, Fall. The Elements and the Seasons. They are part of our world and apart from it. They exist on another plane, spiritlike creatures that humans can’t hear or see … unless they’re strange, like me. There doesn’t seem to be a limit on how many places they can be at once.

Some of these creatures I’ve met. Most I haven’t. So every time I see an out-of-place being out in the fields, as I do now, I wonder who I’m looking at. It’s dark out, and there’s a thick mist. The figure walks with purpose through the crops, hands outspread. Fog again?

After a few moments, the stranger in the field vanishes, finished with whatever he or she set out to do. I pull my gaze from the window and try to focus on the conversation. Something about football, I think. Friday night. My brother is home for the weekend, as he usually is; he works at Fowler’s Grocery in town until he goes back to college on Mondays. I’m quiet—I think my parents prefer it this way—and keep my head down, studying the patterns in the flowered tablecloth as I pick at my food. Corn and potatoes and pork. Yellow, white, pink.

“Liz, you haven’t said a word all night,” my brother says suddenly, and when I look up, his gaze is gentle, encouraging. Even though he probably thinks I’m weird, like the rest of the town, Charles is kind to me.

Something is off about him tonight, though. I sense it, and I probe Charles’ expression. I suspect it has something to do with school; he told me he’s been having trouble with his classes. I notice the way his hands shake slightly as he lifts his glass, the way his eyes dart to Dad and back to his plate again nervously. Apprehension is behind him, resting his hand on my brother’s shoulder. The Emotion pays me no mind.

“I have nothing to say, thanks,” I murmur. I’ve been watching the situation and I have no intention of taking part in it. If Charles has bad news, Tim—Dad—will need someone to take his anger out on later. Because Charles is the favorite child by far, I know it won’t be him. Instinct urges me to be as invisible as possible until the inevitable storm hits.

“What about your friend Maggie? How is she doing?” Charles asks next.

“She’s fine,” I mumble to the table. To discourage more questions, I shove a forkful of potatoes into my mouth.

Dad says something about football again, and Charles dives back into that discussion. I shift my attention from him to Mom. She looks tired. There’s a new bruise by her temple. She’s doing her best to hide the pain, though. She butters a piece of bread as if it’s her sole purpose in life.

“Sarah, my glass is empty,” Dad mutters, and my mother doesn’t hesitate; she gets up, a weary shadow. Charles says something about how good the pork is. There’s no way to ignore what’s happening, but he’s always done his best. The three of us eat in stiff silence. The food is a tasteless lump on my tongue. Tim keeps his head down and Charles’s knee bounces. My gaze strays to the window again. The mist rolls over the fields.

When Mom comes back from the kitchen, I see that Resentment is following her, touching her shoulder as she sets Dad’s precious milk in front of him and sits down. The chair protests by uttering a long groan. The conversation doesn’t continue. We’re silent, a fragmented pretense of belonging, and we all know it.

When our eyes meet, Resentment nods in greeting. He’s bald—even though they’re immortal, Emotions resemble humans in appearance—and I’ve always thought he looks a lot like Mr. Clean minus the gold hoop earring. “How are you, little one?” he questions me. He’s one of the few Emotions that enjoy talking to me. Then again, he enjoys talking to anyone. Resentment has always had a chatty tendency.

I give everyone an excuse and push my chair back, slipping into the kitchen with my glass in hand. Without looking, I know Resentment will follow. No one would appreciate me speaking to the air, so I’m careful to keep my voice low as I say, “I’m the same.” I don’t bother to tiptoe around his question. When dealing with anything otherworldly, I’ve learned to avoid playing the games they love so much. I twist the knob on the sink.

Water spills over the rim of the glass and splatters against the silver sink bottom. I don’t even notice until I feel the cool splash on my fingers. I turn the knob back quickly. Resentment is appraising me. I move by him to stand in the doorway, watching the people I call family. The walls of the house creak, noticeable now because of the heavy silence.

Although Resentment has released his hold on my mother, his effect lingers. She will feel it for hours. And of course more will come to touch her during the course of the evening; it’s the way of humanity to be consumed by Emotions. She hides Resentment’s essence the same way she hides everything else. The only sign of her feelings toward Dad is the purse of her lips. Something no one else will notice but me.

“Fear has been looking for answers,” the Emotion tells me now. “I actually caught him going through some newspaper archives the other day. I haven’t seen him this intrigued about a mortal in over a decade.”

“He won’t find anything,” I say flatly. For once, I don’t have to pretend. “Fear only hunts because he’s bored.” No one in the dining room notices my scrutiny. Charles’s knife clinks against his plate. Mom and Dad discuss the crops.

Resentment doesn’t have a response to this, and we fall silent. As we stand there, it suddenly occurs to me that he might know about the presence I sensed earlier. For a few seconds I consider asking, but something holds my tongue.

Dad will notice if I stay away too long. Nodding a goodbye to Resentment, I rejoin them. Charles is saying something about Fowler’s Grocery now. Sliding into my seat, I take another bite of my barely touched meal so no one will detect anything amiss
.

“I have more summons to see to,” Resentment tells me, his hairless head gleaming in the light of the chandelier. “Enjoy your time with these pathetic people.”

I can’t reply, and he vanishes. Resentment is a simple creature; he has his purpose, he is what he is, and there isn’t much more to him. He’s said before that he doesn’t understand why I bother living among humanity, living a lie. The truth is, I hide my real nature because if I don’t, my nothingness would consume me. I would become a wandering creature, with no connections and no soul. My life in Edson isn’t perfect at all, but it is a life—the only one I’ll ever have. So, even though I don’t hold any feeling for my place in this family or this town, I will hold on to it because I can.

After helping Mom with the dishes—or rather, trying to help and having her edge around me, avoiding so much as a look in my direction—I escape the house and make my way up to the loft of the barn. It’s a serene place, silent except for the cows rustling below. Gentle shafts of the fading sun slip in through the cracks in the walls. Along each of these walls, set on top of bales of hay, are my paintings. Dad allows me to keep them up here; he doesn’t use the loft because of the leaky roof. They don’t get in his way.

The paintings are echoes of my dreams. Well, dreams and images that sometimes flit through my mind at random. I put them on canvas so that I can study and possibly learn from them.

One scene occurs over and over in the brush strokes, differing only in angles and colors. One place, one event:
a beautiful girl I’ve never met before is crying out, cradling a limp boy in her arms. They look like they could be my age, or a little older. The boy’s eyes are closed, his expression one of peace. There are trees all around, and out of the shadows, a hulking, faceless form emerges. No way to tell who or what it is, since it’s surrounded by tendrils of darkness. It stands over the weeping girl, looking at the motionless boy she holds, but she doesn’t seem to notice it. And there the dream is finished. An end of one thing and the beginning of something else, but of what I don’t know.

There are other paintings besides these, though. My dreams have been consumed by more. More images, more mysterious flickers. A vague image of a stone house. The white fingers of the ocean. A pair of crinkled, smiling eyes. The long fingers of a woman, the flutter of a yellow skirt, the vibrant disorientation of parties and celebrations long finished.

Every time I look at these paintings, something inside me clenches. It’s an odd sensation, as if I’m supposed to be feeling something but my wall of nothingness is blocking it.

Again my concentration returns to the boy and girl. Somehow, I believe, they’re the key to all of this. In the painting, there she sits, weeping, torrents of tears streaming down her face. She’s in the woods, wearing jeans and a long T-shirt. Surrounded by tree trunks, kneeling on the moss-covered ground. She’s looking up at the sky—it must be sunset, like now, because the air around her is pink twilight—and she’s screaming. The girl’s teeth shine in the fading light. There is an agony in her face that I cannot even imagine experiencing. The boy she has her arms wrapped around is limp, lying on the ground. Once in a while I get a faint impression that there could have been blood surrounding the two.