When They Fade (18 page)

Even with the small amount of insurance she'll get, it'll take her forever to save up for a new car. She'll be stuck working in town until she earns enough to run away for good.

At home, her parents are guarded. Dad thankfully doesn't scream at her for the damage done. Mom wants to call the police and demand answers, but Dad convinces her to wait until the morning. Might as well wait until they have more information so they can contact the insurance company. Mom's mouth is growing steadily tauter by the minute.

All in all, it could have been worse.

Afterward, in her room, she listens to Mom and Dad argue from behind the closed bedroom door. Mom wants to send her away for the rest of the semester, transfer her to another school. Maybe in Seattle. Maybe getting away from all this is exactly what Tatum needs to start over. Dad worries that sending her away will give the wrong message. Sending her away will only confirm her guilt. Maybe the insurance will be enough to get her another car. She's going to need one to be safe.

There's almost hopefulness in both their arguments. Tatum wants to believe that they are still on her side. Even with the ongoing talk about psychologists and getting help for her emotional problems, Tatum often doubts the support they claim to give her. But if Mom's suggesting that Tatum transfer schools, maybe she really does want to help. Of course it's pointless; even if Tatum goes all the way to Canada, Claudette will still find a way to stalk her. It will only be a matter of time before her past gets shoved down the throats of whatever new place she ends up in.

But if her parents believe her, maybe there is still a bit of goodness in this world.

More than anything, Tatum needs Molly. She has to find out if Molly is okay and made it back. But only a single day has passed, and she knows it takes longer than that. She's not sure how she's going to make it through the next few days without knowing.

She falls asleep on top of the bed with her shoes still on.

Glass shatters.

Tatum jerks awake, unsure of what she just heard. Is she dreaming?

An acidic smell fills her nose, making her throat instantly convulse, forcing her into an uncontrollable coughing spree. Something thick and bright assaults her eyes, forcing them to water. It takes a moment for her brain to register what she's seeing.

Her curtains are on fire.

Bright flames climb the fabric. An orange-and-yellow blaze spreads out across the carpet, dancing about, stealing all the room's oxygen. Her window is open; jagged pieces of glass stick to the windowsill.

Something sails through the air, crashing against the wall, sending an explosion of fire in all directions. A poster begins to crumple, charred paper dissolving at an alarming rate. Some of it reaches the bedspread, and black smoke fills the air, choking Tatum as she frantically jumps off the mattress and races for the door.

“Mom! Dad!” The only thing she can think about is making sure they're okay.

She gets halfway down the hallway before their door opens. They rush out in their pajamas. Mom starts to cough; already the smoke is spreading throughout the house.

“Where's the fire?” Dad yells.

“My room.”

He doesn't say any more, just rushes down the stairs and comes back moments later with the fire extinguisher in his hands. Fighting the smoke and heat, he runs into Tatum's bedroom while Mom fumbles for her phone to call 911.

Thankfully, the fire is extinguished before the fire trucks show up. The rest of the house is fine, but Tatum's room is completely destroyed. Everything's covered in white foam. Her bedspread is ruined. The curtains are charred mush. The window frame is burned to a crisp. Everything smells like wet ash. Firemen traipse through the house with their big black boots, leaving muddy marks on the carpet.

Tatum and her parents sit in the living room. Outside, dogs bark and all the neighbors' lights are turned on. This is something that everyone will talk about for ages. A new chapter for the never-ending story of Tatum's life. The policemen and firemen have already walked Tatum through the events several times. There's not much to say. She woke up to the flames. On the floor of her bedroom, they discovered bits of broken bottle. Outside, they find another bottle in the bushes. Apparently the first attempt missed and hit the house instead, setting fire to the hedge.

No witnesses. No footprints in the wet grass. No strange cars seen fleeing the scene of the crime. Even though some of the neighbors are asked, no one saw a single thing. Everyone was too busy sleeping.

Tatum gives out the same names she gave earlier during the car incident. Her parents reconfirm it. They explain to the police that there have been problems at school and that some of the kids have been causing trouble. The police want to know which students are the worst, and Tatum repeats Claudette's and Graham's names. She mentions Levi, too. She is still having trouble believing that Claudette would take things to this level. But who else would do such a thing? Yes, Tatum is hated by everyone. No, until today, most of the bullying has been rather tame. Nothing she couldn't handle.

Now she's afraid.

Setting the house on fire? This has gone too far. Her father, whom she's been sure all this time secretly doesn't believe her, gets into a heated conversation with the policeman, demanding something be done.

“First my daughter's car, now the house,” he says. “There's something wrong with these kids. Something wrong with their parents.”

Afterward, Mom gets out some old blankets from the closet and makes up the couch for Tatum to sleep on.

“We'll get it fixed tomorrow,” she says, referring to the window. “It might take a few weeks to clean everything up. You can use the office for your personal space until then. But you're stuck sleeping on the couch for a while.”

“That's fine,” Tatum says.

Mom gives her a kiss on the forehead. “Do you need anything? Set your alarm. I'm going to throw a load of laundry in before I go to bed. You're going to need clothes for the morning. Something that doesn't smell like smoke. Is there anything you want me to wash? Or you can borrow something of mine.”

“My hoodie,” Tatum says. “The blue one. And my yoga pants, I guess. Or I can wear yours. It doesn't matter.”

“Done.”

Tatum crawls onto the couch and Mom tucks the blanket around her like she's eight years old again. It feels good. No matter how old she gets, Tatum knows that now and then she still needs her mom to be a mother.

“You know,” Mom says, “I'm going to say this. You know I believe you. If you can't have your parents on your side, then I suppose you've really got nothing. But this gang mentality. No matter what you did or didn't do, this sort of thing shouldn't be happening. This has gone too far.”

“I didn't do it,” Tatum says. “I really didn't.”

“I know you didn't, sweetie. And I think by this point it no longer matters,” Mom says. “But this, all this.” She waves her hand around the room. “This needs to end. Tomorrow I'm going to personally call the school and all the parents. They need to know what their children are doing. This has gone too far. And I don't give a damn what your father says; it's time to find you a new school. You deserve a chance to finish out your senior year in peace.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Dad comes down the stairs. Earlier he put his jacket on over his pajamas, and now he takes it off and hangs it in the closet.

“I'll call the contractor in the morning,” he says. He double-checks the deadbolt on the front door and pauses, looking down at the shoe rack. When he turns, he gives Tatum a quizzical look.

“Your shoes,” he finally says.

“What about them?” They're sitting in a pile by the couch. Soaked with foam, she had to practically peel the wet socks from her feet a few minutes ago.

“You said you were in bed when all this happened. But you were wearing your shoes.”

“I fell asleep with them on,” Tatum says.

“Are you sure?”

Oh God. No. Not again. Tatum looks to Mom for support, only to discover that her mother is looking down at her hands. Just like that. No matter how much they claim to believe her. No matter how much they stand by her side. There will always still be that tiny seed of doubt.

Is this ever going to end? The suspicion? Or will all the family reunions for the next fifty years be full of questions about whether or not Tatum is torturing schoolchildren and robbing banks in her free time?

“You guys were arguing and being really loud,” Tatum says, happy to see Mom look away and toward the floor. “It took me forever to fall asleep. I didn't even get under the covers.”

There's a pause while Dad stares at her long and hard. “We'll talk about it more in the morning.”

This time Tatum can't hear a single word when they both retreat to their bedroom. Tatum lies awake in the dark. Her parents have become strangers to her. It doesn't matter that they raised her, listened to her, watched her grow into the person she's become for the past seventeen years. They want to believe her, but with everything happening, maybe it's too much for them to process. When you hear something all the time, how long does it take to believe? There is something incredibly evil about false accusations. Tatum would never put her parents in harm's way; they should know that without question. In a way, this hurts her more than all the bad things Claudette has done.

In her mind, she silently calls out to Molly, hoping the other girl will hear her prayers and hurry back to her.

It doesn't happen.

I hold the pebble in my hand and write Tatum's name on the wall for the tenth time. Just like the other nine times, nothing happens. The cave is refusing to work. It mocks me, all that sparking light dancing around, sending shimmering slivers across Parker's face.

I throw the chalk as hard as I can, smashing it into several pieces. I kick at the bowl of pebbles, sending hundreds of tiny stones scattering across the floor. The dish cracks in two and then instantly re-forms. Everything in this cavern taunts me. All the things I can't destroy. The things I can't change.

Mary is gone.

And Tatum is going to be a goner if I don't get back to her. The worst part? It's all my fault. I've handled this badly. If anything, I'm putting her in more danger every time I appear.

I don't understand why. Whoever pulls the strings around here, why are they torturing me this way? What did I do on earth to deserve this? I'm the innocent here. The victim. I'm the one who was shredded into ribbons by a madman. My life was torn away before I even had a chance to begin it; I had to leave behind the boy I still love, and I never got the chance to say goodbye to the people I cared about. But I'm not allowed to think about that because the pain is still too strong. I'm the one who spends my now-endless days trapped in a world that has no emotions. No love. Just people who sit around waiting for a white light or a one-way ticket to a heaven that probably doesn't exist. A cursed afterlife that forces me to tell people things they don't want to hear.

Why me?

I want this to end. If I can't feel, then let me stop existing. Let me stop hoping. Let me die in peace.

Parker lets me rant; he leans against the wall, waiting for me to finish, letting me know he's here if I need him to hold me again. I do, but I won't allow myself the luxury. I don't deserve anything, especially not in this place where I can actually feel it.

“Do you think she's in pain?” I ask. I picture Mary, not the happy-go-lucky girl flaunting her corset and complaining about the various men she once knew in her life, but the faceless Mary now forced to wander the earth alone. I could swear she sensed me and all recognition was lost. She no longer remembers her friends. Now I'm just something for her to destroy. A new instinct she has to follow.

“I don't know,” Parker says

“It looked painful,” I say. “Maybe that's why the Remnants hate us. Because we can't feel anything, and they only…they only…” My voice trembles and I can't go on.

“I don't know if they hate us,” Parker says. “I think it's more like something they have to do. To balance everything. To remind the dead that we have no place with the living.”

“Then why do we haunt?”

“To give people hope?”

“Hope?” The word sounds nasty in my mouth. “That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. All we do is bring our own kind of pain, Parker. We remind the living that there's something out there that isn't paradise. All we do is scare and confuse them.”

“It didn't sound that way to Scott's grandmother.”

“She's the exception,” I say. “I gave her a good premonition. Everyone else finds out their loved ones are cheating on them. Or that they're going to die.”

“Not everyone.”

“I hate what I am,” I say. “I hate this place. I hate being dead. And most of all, I hate that my life was taken from me.”

“You're not the only one allowed to hate here,” Parker says softly.

He's right. I'm not alone in my hate. Maybe that's why this place lacks feelings. Perhaps all our hatred became too strong. It's easier to not feel anything than to be angry all the time. Is that what happened? Did all the souls here finally give up and shut down? Turn off their emotions because it beat the alternative? If so, Parker is right. This cave, this emotional turmoil—it's best not to be in it for too long. Because once the initial enjoyment is over, all I can do is remember the things I want to forget.

The things I've lost. And it's not like I can get past everything and move on with my life.

I reach down and pick up a piece of pink chalk. I go over to the other side of the cave, where the glowing rocks aren't as bright. I draw Mary's name in elaborate script. I draw some pathetic-looking flowers. Parker comes over and adds to the monument. He draws a pretty girl dancing in circles, petticoats spinning and whirling, long hair flowing. Adding to my flowers, he draws a meadow with birds and willowy trees. A stream flows through the middle. I try not to get jealous that he's a much better artist than me. As a finishing touch, in the bottom corner I add a heart and color it in carefully.

“So no one will forget,” I say. I wish I could draw music so that everyone who comes here could hear the songs she used to sing.

“Come on,” Parker says after a while. “Let's go back down. It'll give you a chance to clear your head. We'll return the second you want, I give you my word.”

I nod because there's nothing else to do.

“Marry me.”

When Julian spoke those words to me, everything ceased to exist. I know, clichéd and stupid, right? But at that moment, I sincerely felt sorry for every other girl in the world, because they'd never get a chance to know Julian the way I did.

The word
yes
was the only one Julian wanted to hear. It was what I wanted to say more than anything else. But lying there in the back of the truck, covered in warm blankets, watching the millions of stars dance around in the sky just for us, I of course had to screw that one up.

“We're too young,” I said.

“Not right now,” Julian said. “I mean, not like this very minute. But somewhere down the road, once we're able to go off on our own. When you're done with school and I finish up this internship.” Julian had recently started training with a guy who was teaching him how to work with precious metals. They thought he had a future creating jewelry. He had a special talent for design. The stores around Washington were asking for more and more. They couldn't keep his work on the shelves.

“But that will take two years,” I said.

“You're the one who thinks we're too young.”

I laughed and snuggled in closer. I wondered what my father might think if I called him to say I was getting married. I had a lot of guilt building up; so many months had passed, and I still hadn't done what I'd promised. Every time I came across a phone, I'd imagine him sitting in his chair, waiting for me to call. But the guilt wasn't enough yet to make me dial his number. I was afraid of his power over me. What if Dad demanded I come home? Or if he somehow figured out where I was and came to claim me? I couldn't bear to leave. So I didn't do anything. Selfish in my own happiness, I ignored the knowledge that my father and brother continued to live each day wondering where I was and if I was safe.

“I don't want to spend the rest of my time wandering around the country,” Julian said. “It's fine for Walter and Olivia, but I'd rather settle down. We could have a nice house. Save up our money and travel. But I want someplace to call home. A white picket fence. A family.”

“I agree,” I said. Even though I'd been enjoying myself enormously, traveling across the country with my new friends, I had to agree it wasn't always fun and games. The enjoyment of camping wore out quickly after I'd gone a week without a shower. And it wasn't that great to live with a bunch of people who didn't bathe on a regular basis. Sometimes the smells in our van could be strong. The people whose land we were squatting on had only so much patience when it came to sharing the shower. And I didn't like using the large basin we'd set up in camp. It took forever to heat the water on the campfire, and the bottom of the tub always left my skin feeling ragged. Also, Walter had a habit of coming around whenever I used it. As much as I loved Olivia and Sage in particular, I had to admit that Walter had started to seem creepy. I once caught him watching me when he thought no one else was looking. I didn't mention it to Julian, though, because he respected Walter and considered him like the father he'd never had.

“A small house,” Julian said. “Not much; we don't need it. But it should have a yard. We can get a dog. I know you've always wanted pets.”

“And a cat,” I said. “Maybe some fish.”

“We'll have to get a farm, then! The perfect place to raise a family once we're ready.”

It was wonderful, all this dreaming. How lucky I was to have someone to share it with. I felt complete. Ready to begin my next big adventure. I wanted that domestic bliss with Julian. I wanted that life. I'd only just turned sixteen, but none of that mattered. Dad had been seventeen when he met Mom. Marcus had had his longtime girlfriend since he was fourteen. And I was willing to wait two more years until Julian finished his internship and I finished high school. By that time I'd be eighteen and an adult. No one would be able to stop us.

“So what do you say?”

Julian reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. Opening it, he repositioned himself in the blankets so he was on one knee. Inside was a silver ring with a tiny diamond in the center.

“I made it myself,” he said.

“It's beautiful.” I held out my hand and Julian slipped it onto my finger. It fit perfectly.

“So that's a yes?”

I laughed and pulled him toward me. “Of course that's a yes. A million times yes!”

“I love you, Molly,” Julian said. “I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Love. It's the most powerful motivator in the world. It makes people feel like they're invincible. It makes them imagine wonderful universes in which they live happily ever after. When two people are in love, they can move mountains.

I was in love. Life was mine for the taking. I had everything: a glorious future to look forward to and a man who loved me as much as I loved him.

Two weeks later I was dead.

We're not even at the cave entrance when I hear it: thunder. It vibrates within the cavern walls. The smell hits me as I push my body through the cracks: the scent of pine needles and fresh earth, intensified from the rain.

Outside, a storm has appeared out of nowhere. The clouds above us are dark and threatening. Lightning flashes, white-hot crackles of electricity, brightening the sky. I start counting:
one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three
—and there's the boom.

Thunder, loud and echoing.

“What the hell?”

Rain pelts down on us, soaking Parker and me. Within seconds, my shirt is plastered against my body. Water clings to my hair and trickles down my face; drops fall from my nose onto my lips. I open my mouth and raise my face to the sky, allowing the cool liquid to fall down my throat. I close my eyes.

Something is happening.

“Come on,” Parker says. “Let's go find the others.”

The path is muddy and slippery. We slide down, our hands sinking into the wet earth for balance. I lose a sandal and kick off the other, watch it fly into a bush. My toes sink into the soft earth, squishy and comfortable. My skirt gets filthy, but I don't mind. There's enough rain to wash away any amount of dirt.

It only takes moments to reach the shoreline. One minute we're slipping between the trees, high above the lake; the next I find myself toppling off a bank and into the deep blue water.

It swallows me up as I sink down. Kicking with my feet, I push to the surface to find Parker treading water beside me. He's laughing, and it's hard not to enjoy it for that brief second before I remind myself that there are more sober things to worry about.

We swim to shore, only to find ourselves close to the beach. My sandals are back on my feet the second I step out of the water. My skirt is clean again, but still wet. I automatically reach around to feel the torn hem; it's so strange to have something different after so many years of being static. Parker's hair is stuck to his forehead. I brush it away from his eyes so it sticks up in all directions. Parker grins at me, his fingers lingering beside my waist.

It's just a quick walk through the trees in this crazy world that now refuses to stay silent.

They're all waiting on the beach. Confused, the whole crowd of them, they're looking up at the clouds in fear. It's as if they expect the sky to open up and completely swallow them. A few of them had the smarts to cower under the French umbrellas. They look like tourists who suddenly got caught in the middle of a summer storm. Some of them, like the Chinese farmer and the rock groupie from Vancouver, hold their hands out cautiously, surprised to see the water splash against their skin.

In the center area of the beach stands the crazy dog lady. She's spinning about in circles, arms raised up to the sky, her dog bouncing along on his hind legs. He barks happily, his paws swinging up and down for balance. She's laughing hard, her eyes tightly creased, her mouth open to catch the drops. She twirls around one more time before seeing me.

“You,” she says. “You did this!”

Me?

The dog lady comes dancing over, her faithful companion glued to her heels. “Thank you,” she says. “You've done it.”

“I haven't done anything,” I say.

“Pishposh,” she says. “Of course you have.”

“How?”

The lady turns around and faces all the others on the beach. They're inching closer, wanting to hear what she has to say. The crazy dog lady is suddenly about to give a speech that makes sense.

“It's in all of us, you know,” she says. “The ability to change things. This place hasn't defeated us yet. We've become stagnant. Forgotten who we are. Who we used to be. What we loved. But this girl”—she points at me—“she remembers. It's her determination to fix things that's bringing it all back.”

“I still don't understand,” I say.