Foretold Page 25

“Dad! I know. Everything I need to know, I know. We have cable. And the internet. And I haven’t—don’t worry. Please stop,” I finish awkwardly, closing my eyes. One more word out of him might bring the Giuseppe’s back up. Cringe, cringe, cringe, cringe, cringe.

  “Okay. Good. I mean. Um. By the way, almost-birthday girl, everything is set for dinner tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it. Seventeen is a big deal!”

  “Yeah, should be fun,” I say, clinging to the topic change and shoving ice cream into my mouth. “You have to promise no singing Happy Birthday. It has to be completely low key.”

  “Absolutely. Low key. Just you, me, Mrs. O, Griffin, Regan, and your young man…”

  Earlier, when Colin and I surfaced for air on the roof and I sat listening to his heart beat beneath my ear, he told me about my dad’s invite. “He told me this really long story about the copyright history for the Happy Birthday song. I almost missed the part where he invited me,” he said, wheeling a piece of my hair around his finger. Sounded about right.

  “…at a nice dinner and…” Dad clears his throat, his expression a little unsure.

  Please, no more sex talk.

  “I was thinking,” he continues. “If you were okay with it, maybe I could invite Ellie, too. You could meet her, and she’s dying to meet you. We could all celebrate together.”

  I stare at Dad. All I hear is the roar of my blood rushing in my ears for a moment. Is that what this dinner is about? Meeting this woman? Instead of celebrating my seventeenth birthday with my mom, I’m supposed to sit across from her replacement all night, fake smile plastered to my face? That’s my birthday gift? I begin shaking.

  I set the spoon in my hand down carefully and concentrate on the rise and fall of my chest. I didn’t even care to celebrate my birthday at all. It isn’t a big deal, right?

  “I don’t want to pressure you, Cass. I just—”

  “If you don’t want to pressure me, then don’t,” I snap, stunning Dad and myself. My hands ball into fists. I look down and force them to relax. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

  “Cass, please. Your tone… We can discuss this rationally like two adults. No need to raise your voice.”

  “And there’s no need to use your professor voice on me. Whatever. There’s nothing to discuss.” I blindly grab at my ice cream and napkins, and head to the kitchen. This apartment is too small. I need to be away. From him, from the roiling emotional magma bubbling—building—within me.

  Dad follows. “There’s plenty to discuss. I wasn’t trying to force this on you. I only—”

  I shove the ice cream into the freezer and close the door with a bang. “You figured you’d bring it up, and I’d cave because I want you to be happy. And I do. But you’re attacking me because I don’t want to meet her on my birthday. You’re not only choosing her over Mom, now you’re choosing her over me.” I hate the hitch in my voice. I hate the stricken look on my father’s face. I hate that I’m lashing out and that most of what’s coming out of my mouth is hateful and false. But mostly I hate the fact that I can’t stop now that I’ve started.

  “Cass, I’m not attacking you! I would never choose anyone over you. You know that.” He looks helpless. “And no one could ever replace your mother. That’s not what this is. Ellie is…”

  “Ellie!” I repeat. I make it sound like a curse.

  “Your mother broke my heart, Cass! She did. And I know she broke yours, too…”

  “Oh, you want me to let you in?” My eyes burn. Kept the poison to myself for too long. I can’t stop from vomiting it up now. “To know how I feel? I look around at people and pick them off on the streets, like a psycho. Why is that old man allowed to live? Give me ten of his years for Mom. Why is that lady still around? Take ten from her. Why do they get to live and my mom had to go? I want to trade them like baseball cards. That’s what I feel.” There is a choking pressure in my chest and throat, like I’ve swallowed fire and ash.

  “Cass, I’m so—” Dad reaches for me.

  I jerk away. “She lied to me. She said no matter how bad things are, they’ll get better, but that’s a lie. Nothing, nothing will ever fix this. She’s gone. Nothing will make that better. Nothing will bring her back. She’s dead. My mom is dead. Gone.”

  I haul in a shuttering breath. “There’s this ugly thing living inside me, and it claws up my insides whenever I think about her. But I feel guilty if I don’t think of her, I’m scared not to, because I’ve forgotten so much already. I’ll keep forgetting more, too. And when I do, those memories are gone forever because I can’t ask her what she remembers. And I can’t make new memories with her, either. I’ve got this draining well I can’t fill because she isn’t here. She isn’t here.” I’m speaking in fits of starts and stops. “Time doesn’t heal anything. She’s a hole right here, and she’ll stay that way until the day I die too.”

  My vision is blurred. I can feel my eyes swelling. I’m an ugly crier. I push past Dad and drop to my knees onto the rug outside the kitchen door. I comb at the threads, straightening.

  “No, Cass. Please. Stop that. You don’t—”

  “I need to! Let me go!” I scream, struggling against his hold as he tries to force me to my feet.

  “Don’t give in. Dr. Ward—”

  “Dr. Ward has a mom. Did you know that? Her mom is ninety.” I am manic. I am speaking too fast. I feel it. I can’t stop it. “I don’t. My mom is gone. I’ll never get to see her again. I’ll never hold her again. It’s like she got off the bus, and I have to watch her get smaller and smaller as we drive off. And when we’re far enough, I won’t be able to see her at all. You only get one mom, and I only had mine for thirteen years.”

  Dad pulls me to him, running his hand over my hair. I want this conversation over. I don’t want to hear what he has to say in response. Talking about this didn’t help. I was right to keep the poison in. Why did I let it out? I pull away and head toward my bedroom.

  “Oh, Cass. Honey…”

  I wheel on him. “How can you live when she’s dead? I don’t mean ‘live’ like breathing in and out or… existing. I mean go out into the world and replace her—”

  “Stop. I told you that nothing will ever replace her. Never. I see her everywhere. I see her in this house she and I made a home together, and I don’t just mean in the photos we’ve got lying around. I see her making us pancakes in the morning. I see her holding you in her arms the day you were born; this little, squalling, red thing pressed against her chest. I see her whispering that you should punch Rob Riedel in the nose if he tries to look up your skirt again, and telling me her baby ‘wouldn’t start fights, but she was damn well going to finish them.’ I see her playing Trivinometry with us, and her little victory dance. I see her for one breathless second at traffic lights in the faces of strangers, and I spin a conspiracy where she didn’t die, because some part of my mind refuses to believe she could be gone. I see her every time I look at you. I close my eyes and I see her. She’s everywhere. Everywhere. Because she’s here.” Dad covers his heart with his hand. Tears are coursing down his cheeks. “She always will be. And so will you. I promise you.”

  My tears begin anew. The poison is gone. The anger. All of it. All that’s left is a yawning, aching emptiness, and two people peering into the void. Dad opens his arms, and I throw myself into his embrace. He holds me tight and rocks me back and forth.

  When the shadows on the walls grow long, and the city settles into the quietest it’s capable of becoming, Dad finally speaks.

  “You know what I think of sometimes? She used to do that thing with her napkin…”

  I hiccup out a laugh. “Where she’d fold it into a swan every time we went out because she worked as a banquet hall waitress that one summer.”

  Dad chuckles and squeezes me harder. “She refused to let that skill go to waste.”

  I reach up and wipe at my face. Dad goes into the kitchen and rips off a few paper towels. He hands me one. I blow my nose. It feels like san
dpaper. People in mourning should always have tissues handy. “I remember when she decided to try that new place and got that haircut—”

  “Oh God, not the bangs! She had acres of bangs,” Dad groans. He grins down at me. “How about that incredible lullaby she always used to sing you? Even when you were way too old for it.”

  My lips twist. “She stole it from a movie, you know. She made me swear not to tell you she didn’t come up with it herself.”

  Dad looks floored. “Are you kidding me? I thought she was so creative. I used to tell her we should try to get it copywritten and recorded!”

  I giggle. “I know. She used to get a kick out of it.”

  Dad tenderly pushes my hair behind my ear. “You know, your mother was the love of my life, right up until you were born. We both agreed you snatched up the number one spot in our affections after that. We moved to number two on each other’s lists.”

  I give Dad a lopsided smile and glance at the framed picture of her on the bookshelf, one I could draw from memory if I had Colin’s talent. “I miss her,” I say unnecessarily. To fill the silence, in the room and in me.

  He sighs. “Me too, Cass. Me too.”

  I open my mouth to speak, close it. Open it again, whipping up a cyclone of mixed emotions behind my ribs. “Tomorrow. You can bring her. Eleanor.” Her name scrapes by the tightness in my throat. “El—Ellie. I’ll meet her.”

  “No. That wasn’t well done of me at all. It’s your birthday. It’s not about me. It’s not about anyone but you. There are three hundred sixty-four other days of the year when you can meet her, and I tried to hijack the one that should be yours.”

  “I want you to be happy. It’s—”

  “I am happy. You’re the most important person in my world, Cassandra Morai. No one else comes close. I don’t want you worrying about it.”

  Guilt churns in my stomach. “Really, Dad. It’s alright. I—I don’t want you to be alone. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry! Don’t ever be sorry. I know it’s not easy. I want you to know, Cass, it wasn’t easy for me either. I felt guilt, confusion. But then I realized Ellie wasn’t replacing your mom. You don’t push someone out of your heart when someone else comes along. My heart swelled and made some room. Ellie seems like a good fit for the broken-down version of Jeff your mom left behind.”

  I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. “Dad, I want to meet her. I… I’ll adjust, I’m already adjusting, I promise. This talk… it helped. Really.”

  “We can talk about this some other time.”

  “No. I want to talk about it now. I want this, Dad. I swear it.”

  “Okay. You’ll meet her soon, Cass, I promise. But she won’t be coming to dinner tomorrow. That’s final,” he says. His eyes take on a faraway look, and he gives me a sad little half-smile. “You know, toward the end there, when it became clear your mom didn’t have a lot of time left… she told me she wanted me to find someone when she was gone. I refused to hear it, but she insisted. She wanted me to find someone so long as, and I quote, ‘She’s not as cute as me. Or as funny.’”

  My heart contracts painfully, thinking of Mom at the end. Skin stretched over bone, weak, but still joking. Still upbeat.

  I lay my head on Dad’s shoulder. “Is she? El… Eleanor. As cute? As funny?”

  Dad heaves a big breath and rests his head against mine. “No. Your mom was a once-in-a-lifetime find. Only one person comes close. I’m proud to call her my daughter.”

  Chapter 25

  The crow is back. The bird I saw the day I met Colin rests on the knee-wall between our rooftops. I’m actually not sure it’s the same one, but it looks familiar enough.

  “Get out of here! Message received, dumb bird,” I call.

  I’m not afraid of it anymore. Our Omen Reading instructor said that a single crow was a sign I’d need to use my scrying abilities for something important. I’ve got Aunt Bree’s ritual to do tonight, and Colin to save after that. I don’t need a bird to tell me what I already know.

  And yet, it remains. I look over again at Colin’s roof door. He’s late.

  A piercing caw sounds. The crow now has a friend. Two black-as-night crows are watching me from the wall. I ignore the prickle of unease. It’s nothing. But a few more settle on the knee-wall. Six crows, the sun glinting off their backs. I can see their prehistoric ancestors in those beady stares, and the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention.

  “Holy Hitchcock! What are all those crows doing there?” Colin calls from his door, startling me. He carefully hops over the wall far from where the birds are perched and pulls me to him for a quick kiss. He tries to deepen it, but I can’t… not with the crows watching. I pull away and give him a forced smile.

  Six crows. Omen of impending death. A soul harvest. The red blessing was Ford, which means this can’t be that… which means… Oh God. I feel it; a clock inside me has suddenly roared to life, Colin’s clock. It’s coming. I need that ritual. I pick at my thumb and ask Colin if we can go down to his room instead of hanging on the roof. If I sound panicky, he doesn’t comment on it. One, two, three… This compulsion is not me…

  We’re nearly at Colin’s roof door when Dad emerges from ours. The crows launch off the knee-wall in a flurry of squawks and flapping wings.

  “Oh good. You’re up here. I was going to see if you wanted Thai for lunch, Cass. I’m going to call it in in maybe in an hour or so? You in, Colin? Noodles?”

  “I’m always game for noods.” Colin grins.

  Dad raises an eyebrow.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen Colin honest-to-God blush. “Noodles,” he clarifies.

  I nod at Dad and follow Colin to his room, silently counting.

  “I didn’t realize you’d be going back. This sucks. I thought camp was over,” Colin says, handing me a record.

  “Yeah, I just came back for the weekend. For my birthday.”

  “Why don’t you skip the rest of it? Stay here with me.”

  “I have to go back. It’s only for one more week.” Less, actually, since I’m skipping the Coil Walk.

  “Calvin Klein going to be there too?” he asks nonchalantly.

  “Are you jealous?”

  He snorts. “No.” He pauses. “Yes.”

  I lean over and kiss him, and run my hand over his head. He had a haircut this morning. His black hair is shorter than it’s been since I’ve known him. I like it, but I miss running my fingers through it.

  “What am I supposed to hold onto when we… you know… now that you cut your hair.”

  He laughs. “When we ‘you know’?”

  My face feels hot. “Yeah.”

  “You still can’t say it. It’s hilarious. Just say it! Kiss. When we kiss,” he says.

  “When we… make music,” I say, looking at his records spread out in front of me.

  “Nice euphemism. Sounds way worse than kissing. When we ‘make music,’ you can always hold onto my—why are you laughing, pervert? I was going to say ears.”

  “Well, thank God your ears jut out so mu—”

  Before I can finish my taunt, I’m flat on my back with his lips pressed to mine. He slips his lips to my neck and kisses his way to my ear, spreading goosebumps with every touch. He bites at my lobe gently. “Your ears aren’t so small either, you know.”

  “Yeah, but in comparison to yours, mine are dainty. So are the Easter Bunny’s. So are Dumbo’s.”

  I’m breathless from the tickle-attack he unleashes. And when he calls my eyes “gorgeous” and presses his open mouth to mine, I’m left breathless for a different reason.

  We pull apart when angry, muffled shouting startles me.

  Colin’s chest heaves. I feel a thrill that I have that effect on him, but the shouting starts again. I look at the door with worry. “What is that?”

  “What’s what?” he asks. “Oh. I’m so used to it I don’t even notice anymore. That is two-thirds of the prim and perfect Clay family and the daily airing o
f their grievances.” Colin’s face flushes a dull red.

  “I only stay for our son. You wait until Colin’s in college,” Colin’s mother shouts.

  “Why wait? He’s only a year away. Put us out of our misery! You think you’re doing him a favor? You think you’re doing me any favors?”

  “Oh, please. Perfect wife, perfect life. You begged me to stay. Can’t win an election if you’re going through an ugly divorce, can you, Jon? And I swear to God, it’ll be the ugliest—”

  “What do you want from me, Katherine?”

  “Let’s go to the roof,” Colin says, standing and reaching down to help me up. “Let me grab my hat.” He walks over to his walk-in closet. I follow, pretending I’m not listening to the vicious hate-fest going on downstairs.

  “I think your closet is bigger than my room,” I say, talking to drown out the arguing. “Whoa. What’s that?” I nod toward a bunch of canvases leaning against the wall near the door.

  “No, don’t touch—” Colin says.

  I’m already thumbing through the canvases. “You painted these? They’re amazing!”

  “They’re okay. Let’s get out of here,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck, a supremely uncomfortable look on his face. I am about to take pity on him and leave the paintings alone when I see the last one in the bunch: a familiar face staring back at me.

  I pull it up and look back at him. “You painted… me?”

  The painted version of me is looking up from beneath her lashes with stunning kaleidoscope eyes. I look shy… pretty… vulnerable. I see myself the way he sees me, and I feel beautiful. Until I notice the hand pushing my light brown hair behind an ear. It is my hand. Scabbed. Rough. Damaged. I touch my hand to that painted hand.

  “I painted that after that day we went to the Spite House,” he says.

  I look up at him. My eyes well. I’m not sure why.

  “And I painted this one after the first time we ‘made music.’” He reaches over and pulls a large painting out from another pile of leaning canvases. “I was up late for that one. And this one after I met Mrs. O.” He pulls out another. “And this one the first day I met you.” He’s captured a haunted quality in that last one.