Sunblind (4 page)

“Lift the needle, Dom,” he says. “You sound like a broken record.”

I have reason to be stuck in my groove! “Ever since Nap came to town he's been lying!” I proclaim. “The way he acted at Jess's funeral is all the proof I need.”

“That isn't proof,” Archie rebuts. “Just your point of view.”

And just what point is Archie trying to make?

“I get why Domgirl is blaming Napoleon. She's looking for an explanation,” Caleb states. “But, Winter, dude, why are
you
defending him?”

Finally! At least I'm not the only one perplexed as to why Archie has become a Napoleonic advocate.

“I'm not
defending
him, just trying to make y'all see reason,” Archie declares. “I'll let up if you can tell me what his motivation would be.”

“Sometimes people don't need motivation to do stupid things; sometimes it's just their nature,” I say.

“Like choosing not to spend the night in your cage?” Caleb asks.

Newsflash: A fast-beating heart can actually be heard. I can hear my heart pounding so fast in my chest I can't believe no one is commenting on it. They're probably not commenting on it because Caleb is waiting for me to speak and Archie is trying to figure out what his question means. It doesn't take him long to figure out the truth.

“You lied to me!”

“Sorry,” I mutter sheepishly.

“I can't believe you lied, Dom!” Archie squeals, his voice sounding nothing like the voice of a testosterone-fueled football player, which is what he is. “You told us you were in your cage and Luba unlocked it again.”

“I never said those exact words,” I say.

“Inferred! You
inferred
that you went into your cage and then Luba used her magical squawbilities to unlock it,” Archie shouts, his voice still incredibly high-pitched, but now he sounds like the incredibly betrayed friend that he is. “Why didn't you just admit the truth?”

He has to ask why?

“If I had told you guys that I deliberately chose not to go into the cage, you would've flipped out!” I shout back. “You would've disregarded our need for silence, and the entire cafeteria would've heard everything. I couldn't take that chance.”

“And why didn't you tell me last night when I dropped you off?” Caleb asks.

His voice is a stark contrast to our yelling. It's quiet and contains even more hurt and betrayal than Archie's yelling could ever convey.

The details aren't necessary, but I need a diversion, a simple task, so I explain to Archie that last night, Caleb dropped me off at the abandoned barn on his Uncle Luke's property off Route 75. The land is isolated, uninhabited, and for sale, which is why Caleb felt it was the ideal solution and the ideal location for my transformation. Caleb set up the cage inside the barn because he knew that it would keep me safe, but I had other plans.

I told him to leave before the transformation because I couldn't bear to have him see me leave my human form again. That was the truth. My lie came when I promised him that I would go into the cage, toss the key far enough away so I couldn't get to it, and see him in the morning when he came to let me out. He even bought two plucked and beheaded chickens at the butcher over in Pawnee City so I could feed. Now if that doesn't describe the perfect boyfriend, I don't know what does. And how do I repay perfection? With a broken promise.

“I'm sorry, Caleb,” I say. “I couldn't do it. I couldn't go into that cage again.”

And how does my hurt boyfriend repay his lying girlfriend? With empathy.

“I understand,” he replies.

I know his words are meant to console me, to heal me, but they only serve to humiliate me. My body flinches involuntarily, like a hot poker was pressed onto my stomach. I stare at Caleb's feet because I'm not worthy of looking into his eyes. I open my mouth to speak, but my voice betrays me, unable to find the right words to respond to Caleb's kindness. My silence prompts Archie to ask the question I'm too ashamed to utter.

“You
understand?
”

Smiling, Caleb leans back against a metal pole, his hands clasped behind him to reveal that the armpits of his practice jersey are stained with tiny circles of sweat, the only imperfection on an otherwise perfect body. He looks like he's resting, taking in the slivers of September sun that are shining through the bleacher seats overhead, instead of contemplating his girlfriend's considerably reckless actions. Once again he surprises me.

“Sure it's dangerous,” he starts, “But in the long run it's the best thing you can do if you want to fully control this wolf spirit and be the more powerful of the two.”

He really does understand. Too bad Archie doesn't.

“And while you're trying to maintain control, more people could wind up hurt or killed,” he says, his voice mixed with fear and anger, just like the voices I heard last night. For a split second I think that maybe Archie was one of the hunters, but no, that's ridiculous. He's acting strangely, nervous and not his typical carefree self, but he would never join the crusade to hunt me down. I'm unsure about a lot of things, but not that.

“Don't you see, Dom,” Archie continues, “Even if you can control the wolf, you can't control this town. What if you got caught last night? What would've happened then?!”

I would've been killed or maimed so I could've been captured, and when the sun returned this nightmare would have been over. For me anyway. Not for the two faces staring at me. The hot poker pushes all the way through my body and emerges out the other side as I suddenly realize that their nightmare is never going to end. They're always going to worry about me and do whatever they possibly can to protect me. This curse is like a restless octopus whose tentacles keep stretching out, destroying everything they touch.

The air around me is as thick as the silver mist that won't leave Nadine alone. I can't breathe very well, and it only gets worse the more I look into Caleb's and Archie's eyes. These two have become my family, and I'm terrified to think that my actions and this curse will destroy them just like they destroyed my father.

How quickly things change. A few minutes ago I thought I wanted their support, but right now I want to be as far away from them as I possibly can be.

As I run across the football field I hear them shout my name behind me. I stumble and almost fall to the hard, hateful earth below me, but I force myself to stay upright and strong and focused so I can keep running.

With every stride one thought becomes more and more evident: There's no place in this world I can run to that will keep the two of them safe.

Chapter 3

She's staring at me.

I don't have to turn to the left; I don't have to look up. I could be blind, and I'd still know that her eyes are on me, peering through my skin to see what's inside of me, to see if there's anything left worth looking at. It doesn't matter that her eyes are wooden and lifeless; The Weeping Lady can see me. She can see who I am, she can see what I am, and that's why she knows I'm nothing but trouble. But despite that she can't look away because she feels a connection. Hanging in limbo, residing in two different worlds at once, she knows the two of us are very much the same.

Curiosity wins out, and I whip my head around, certain that there's going to be a real woman standing next to the tree, her skin the color and texture of bark. Or the tree itself is going to be flesh and blood. Just another everyday miracle in our little freak-magnet town.

But I'm wrong.

The Weeping Lady isn't a real lady, nor is she really weeping, but she is staring at me. It's kind of amazing actually. Her eyes are in the same position they're always in, the way they've looked every day I've passed by here, every day for decades from what I've been told, but right now they look as if they're fixated on my face.

“Why don't you take a picture?!” I shout. “It lasts longer!”

The Weeping Lady remains stuck in the oak tree and doesn't break free of the bark shackles and jump to the ground to confront me for being rude and disrespectful. Really? Is that what I expected would happen? I'm overcome by the absurdity of my thoughts, and I hear a loud gigglaugh pierce the quiet. It's been a while since I've heard that sound, so I don't do anything to stifle it; I let it expand and grow until it dies a natural death. I've missed that sound.

Standing in front one of the town's prized obscurities I feel good even though the sun is so strong I can feel beads of sweat form on my upper lip and on my forehead and slip down the hollow curve of my spine. My body wants to get out of the sun, wants to hide from the glare; my mind is at peace, so it wins out and I don't move.

Slowly, The Weeping Lady changes, not by her own choice or by my will power but due to the sunlight. Circles of hazy light surround her face so it looks like gauze is being wrapped round and round her, making pieces of her face disappear. The blazing light lengthens to envelop her body in an attempt to consume and devour and annihilate her. She is fighting for her life, and all I can do is watch.

I refuse to give in to the harsh sunlight and blink despite the puddles of tears that are starting to form in my eye sockets. They collect as much fluid as they can, and soon the tears overflow and trickle down the sides of my face. I'm not crying, but bearing witness.

Still my vision is totally blurred, and I can feel my eyes trying to shut. I hear a voice inside of me. I have no idea who it belongs to—my mother, Jess, the wolf—but it's telling me to keep my eyes open, to keep looking, to keep staring into the sun. I join the voice and tell myself that I can do this; I'm stronger and better and more determined.

And then there's nothing but darkness.

It only lasts for an instant, but it's long enough to offer confirmation to me that I lost. I blinked. I gave in to the harshness of the sun; I gave in to the forces outside of me and ignored the spirit living within. The Weeping Lady is back to normal; nothing about her has changed. Her metamorphosis was nothing more than an illusion; I'm nothing more than a girl who's lost her way.

Well, it's time to get back on track.

 

The Retreat looks exactly the same. Boring brick exterior, institutionalized black, gray, and red interior, overall uninviting atmosphere. Its main receptionist, however, has undergone a transformation. Essie looks like she spent a month at a spa or underwent instachange by going on one of those reality TV shows where they make you over from head to toe by performing sixteen different cosmetic surgeries on your body in one weekend. Whatever she's done, Essie looks beyond great.

“Essie! What gives?!” I shout, ignoring the signs that forbid exclamations of any kind. “You look awesome!”

Smiling like one of the celebrities in her magazines, Essie does a full-swivel in her chair. “You like?”

“No,” I reply. “I do not like.”

Swiveling comes to an abrupt stop. As does Essie's smile. “You don't?”

“No, Essie!” I squeal. “I love!”

Her mousy brown-gray hair is no longer mousy brown or gray; it's the color of mouth-watering dark chocolate and cut in a super flattering bob. Hair parted on the right, her bangs swing over and curve around her eye while the other side is tucked behind her ear. Her makeup is soft and shimmery and sexy in that “I could easily be a grandmother, but I've still got some life left in me” sort of way. I'm shocked. I knew she was looking for a solution for the mid-to-late-life crisis she was going through, but I had no idea the result was going to be so physically dramatic.

“Seriously, Es, you look absolutely mag-tastic!” I gush. “I'm surprised Lars Svenson hasn't unleashed the paparazzi to get a photo of you for the cover of the
Three W
!”

Essie has no idea that I'm not one-hundred percent serious.

“Oh, Dominy,” she blushes. “No one wants to see my face on the cover of the
Weekly.
”

Grabbing Essie's hands, I tell her, “You then and you now are the most incredible before and after I've ever seen.”

Blushing an even deeper shade of red, Essie squeezes my hands tighter. “You really think so?”

Well, not really. I am the Queen of the Before and After, but Essie is a super-close second.

“Absolutely!” I white-lie.

“It's all thanks to my new boyfriend,” Essie shares.

For a second I think that she's white-lying too. Until she blushes yet a deeper shade of red, so it looks like she has a third-degree sunburn. Essie's way too old to have a boyfriend, isn't she? Then again, maybe she isn't as old as I thought and she only looked ancient because she let herself go and kept her face buried in magazines that only show glamorous people, so she looked even worse by comparison. I guess at some point watching life was no longer satisfying and Essie decided to live. I have to be honest, it's a bit weird to think about Essie on a date with some guy, flirting and making small talk, all the while wondering if the guy is going to kiss her good night, but I'm happy for her. As long as she keeps all the details of her romancecapades to herself.

Of course the moment that thought pops into my mind, I simply have to know who she's been having romancecapades with.

“'Fess up, Essie,” I demand. “Who's your new fella?”

All the red from her cheeks fades and is replaced by a pale gray. I know that color well; it's the color of fear.

“I-I'd rather not s-say,” she stutters.

Why would something that should bring Essie joy make her afraid? Could I be misjudging her or could she just be acting coy so I make an even bigger fuss and drag the information out of her? Unsure, I don't do anything. I don't say a word; I don't agree with her, I don't try to coax her to offer a name; I remain silent. Which is exactly what Essie does. Obviously she meant what she said. But why?

Could she be making the whole thing up? Could this boyfriend be an invention? No, if she did that she'd ramble on about him, give me an exact physical description, and tell me all sorts of personal details I would rather not hear. That's what people do when they lie; they go overboard, fill in the blanks with a non-erasable marker to make it look like they're telling the truth when all it does is make them look like a liar. Nope, Essie's no liar; she's got a boyfriend, but a secret one.

Could she be dating a married man? Or someone very well-known in the community? Or both?! Then again maybe their relationship is in the early stages and she's adopting the new mother approach—not announcing she's pregnant until the first trimester is over just in case complications develop and she miscarries. Essie is smartsie. She probably wants to keep her boyfriend's name secret until she's a bit more certain he's going to turn into something more long lasting than just a boyfriend. I can't blame her. She's waited a long time for some happiness after her first husband died; why not be cautiously optimistic?

“I'll let you off the hook, Essie,” I say, adopting a magnanimous tone to my voice. “But when you're ready to announce his name to the world, I want to be the first one to know.”

A wave of relief crests over Essie's face, and her color rushes back. “Deal.”

Grabbing the index card that has the number 19 written on it in sparkly gold marker, I feel sorry for giving Essie a hard time. Of all people, I should understand the importance and necessity of keeping secrets. Before the door to my mother's room closes behind me, I realize that Essie and I aren't the only ones who have something to hide.

“I'm going to make everything right again, I promise.”

I've never heard such heartfelt devotion in my brother's voice.

“Barnaby?”

More furious than startled at being interrupted, my brother looks up at me, unsuccessfully trying to turn a grimace into a smirk. He's also unsuccessful at letting go of my mother's hand before I witness the connection, so, much to his credit, he holds on to the hand I haven't seen him touch in over ten years.

I should be happy to see my brother sitting next to my mother's bed, holding her hand, talking to her, but instead I'm filled with the notion that I've stumbled upon something I wasn't meant to see. Instead of being thankful that he's finally come around and accepted the fact that our mother isn't to blame for lapsing into this coma of unknown causes, I'm scared. I know that whatever he was whispering to my mother had something to do with me.

What did he say? He's going to make everything right again. What exactly does that mean? And why am I so afraid to ask him about it? I'm his older sister; I'm the one who he should be afraid of, not the other way around. Why am I complicating things? Be like the wolf, I remind myself; be simple and straightforward and strong.

“What do you mean you're ‘going to make everything right again'?” I ask.

Yup, sometimes the wolf knows best.

“None of your business,” Barnaby replies.

And sometimes he's totally off the mark. Time for the girl to take over.

“Come on, fill me in,” I whine. “You're supposed to tell your big sister everything.”

I can tell by looking into his eyes that Barnaby wants to confide in me. No matter how angry he's ever gotten with me, and through the years he's gotten pretty mad, he's never allowed his anger to consume him. There's always been a light in his eyes, a flicker of hope, reassurance that through all the screaming and name-calling and fist-fights we'll still be close. I see it now; I see the spark; it's like a bright light that's connecting his heart to mine. But just as quickly the spark is lost. I don't know if it's extinguished or if it's been replaced by something else. All I know is that, for the time being anyway, Barnaby is lost to me, and no amount of begging or cajoling or pressuring is going to get him to tell me what his cryptic remark really means. Just like with Essie, I accept defeat.

“Fine, don't tell me,” I say. “See if I care.”

“It's just between me and Mom,” he says.

Now I really do feel awkward, as if I interrupted nothing more than a private mother-son moment. Barnaby's hand hasn't let go of my mother's since I walked into the room, and it's clear by the way that he's holding her that this isn't the first time they've touched. His grasp isn't tentative or suffocating, it's relaxed and gentle, as if he's done this hundreds of times before. Witch hunts by night, bedside vigils by day. What other secrets is my brother hiding?

“Well, it's nice to see you and Mom together like this,” I say. “I know it always makes me feel good when I sit with her.”

Whatever connection we shared is destroyed.

Abruptly Barnaby drops my mother's hand, and it falls limply by her side. “Then I'll give you two some privacy.”

We both feel the electric shock when I touch Barnaby's shoulder. All I wanted to do was tell him that he didn't have to leave, and all I did was give him another reason to not want to stay.

“You don't have to go,” I urge.

“Yes, I do,” my brother replies. “I've . . . I've said all I needed to say.”

The sound of the door closing after my brother leaves the room is heartbreaking. When I turn around and see my mother staring at me I want to rejoice. She's looking at me with the same intensity as The Weeping Lady, except her eyes are alive and open and loving.

“Mom!”

There's no response, but that's fine because her eyes stay open; they don't close; they don't retreat. Best thing is that they don't make me think that I'm hallucinating, trying to conjure up more miracles and magic. This is beyond a marvelous spectacle; this is validation that my mother is still fighting whatever force is keeping her locked away from this world, and I just know that she's closer than ever to finding her way back to us.

“Oh, Mom, can you see me?” I plead.

Kneeling next to her bed, I clasp her hand and press it against my cheek. Her skin is so warm and her eyes are so bright, part of me thinks she's going to yawn and stretch and jump out of bed eager to reclaim her life. But the smarter, more realistic part of me knows better. This is not a beginning, but it is a sign that I know my father had something to do with.

Guaranteed my father has been speaking with God or an angel or Jess, telling them that since he was taken from his children, our mother needs to come back. It's only fair. I feel like a little girl again, convinced my father is the strongest man in the world. Holding my mother's hand, I know that my father is still protecting me, that he's still in my life and he's still determined to help me deal with this curse.