CHAPTER 9 TIME MARCHES ON #2
“Have you lost your entire mind?” she asks, looking me over from head to toe. “You were gonna fight an intruder with your bare hands? In pajamas and snow boots?”
“I’m calling public safety,” my dad yells from his office. “You sure there was someone there?”
“Positive!” I yell back. “Lucky I didn’t catch them. I’m ready to fight.”
Mom crosses her arms over her chest. “When’s the last time you fought somebody, Meka?”
“Probably fourth grade,” I say. “And it wasn’t really a fight as much as a shoving match but still, I’m ready.”
Me and my mom stare at each other for a few seconds in complete silence. She breaks first, descending into a fit of laughter. I smile too. I actually smile and find something funny—even if it’s because somebody is trying to rob us—for the first time since Noah died.
My dad comes back out into the hall, a puzzled look on his face. “Why are we laughing? I thought somebody was robbing us.”
As my mom waves her hand, I notice that three of her nails are broken off.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
She follows my gaze, then tucks her hand into her pocket. “Don’t look at it. You know I hate it when my nails aren’t done. They came off when we were transferring one of our new guests onto the prep table.”
“So that’s what you two were doing downstairs just now?” I ask.
My dad sits on the bottom step. “Just trying to get ahead. I have a bunch of meetings this week on campus so work might get backed up if I come home late.”
“Oh, okay. I could’ve helped,” I say.
“It’s fine. Really.” Mom sighs and leans her head on my shoulder. “I love seeing you laugh, baby.”
She’s wearing one of her fancy plush robes with the matching head scarf. The smell of Smithfield’s wafting off her is overpowering.
“Mom,” I say, leaning away from her. “You’re gonna have to wash that robe on hot. You were prepping in that?”
Mom glances down the length of her body and cinches the belt around her waist. “Emergency situation. But you’re right. This robe is probably going in the trash. I wasn’t even thinking.”
When public safety arrives, they look around but find nothing other than some indistinct tracks in the snow.
Whoever it was is long gone by now. The locks and windows on the shed are intact so there isn’t much else they can do aside from taking our statements and asking us to call them if anything else happens.
My parents go off to their room and sleep hunts me as I lie in my bed, listening for any sign that someone is outside. I evade sleep as long as I possibly can but eventually my lids close on their own, and as the world fades away, the nightmare tears through my brain.
The inside of the car appears, the gauzy orange light, my mom crumpled on the ground.
Then everything changes and I’m sitting somewhere, a bright light overhead, flash of silver.
This time it is defined enough for me to make out what it is—the edge of a preparation table, similar to the ones we have in the basement only this one isn’t ours.
This one has a rounded lip while the ones we have are more angular.
My dad stands at the head of the table draped in black, holding something in his bloodstained hands—a book.
I jolt awake, my body drenched in sweat, my muscles tense and aching.
I kick away the blankets and lie staring at the ceiling.
The dream is changing again. Grief has seeped in and screwed everything up.
I can’t dream of Noah, but my mind can conjure images of my dad standing in a prep room holding a book? I want to scream.
The next morning, I make the short walk to Ithaca Falls and stand at the entrance to the surrounding park.
The early morning air is frigid, but I’m bundled up enough to blot out most of the cold.
I try not to get my hopes up, but as I duck off the street and down the narrow path that leads to the rock wall at the base of the falls, I let myself hope it’s still there.
Please still be there. Please.
When I find the place where Noah had drawn our initials on the rock, it’s blank.
Melting snow has erased Noah’s handwriting.
I put my hand on the wall and hang my head.
I miss him so much it hurts. It’s like there’s a hole in my chest. The feeling stirs something else in me—the memory of the dream.
It’s the same feelings—loss, emptiness, and longing.
Behind me, the quick snap of a stick draws my attention.
I whip around and scan the empty pathway.
There’s nothing but the thick tangle of trunks and branches stripped bare.
There is a rustling of leaves in the windless cold.
A stab of panic ripples through me. Most of the wild animals in Ithaca are not much to worry about—deer, foxes, possums, that sort of thing—but every once in a while I’ll hear that somebody caught a black bear digging through their trash.
But it’s winter and they should be hibernating.
With my luck, I feel like the one bear that decided not to knock out for the winter would be here, ready to tear me apart.
I suddenly want to be anywhere but in the secluded enclave at the foot of the falls.
Just then, I hear a loud screech, the call of a bird .
. . ?a raven. It circles overhead once, twice, then lands on a branch just opposite me.
It tucks its wings against its body and its gaze darts around before landing squarely on me.
It sticks out its neck and squawks once, then again, and then lowers its head and begins making a low, almost guttural sound, like a person clearing their throat.
“Hey,” a voice crackles as the wind whips past me.
I spin around, expecting to see that someone has walked up on me while I wasn’t paying attention.
“Hey,” the voice says again. “Get . . . out . . . get . . . out.”
The voice is coming out of the raven.
I blink. I’m losing my mind. I need help. The grief is too much and I’m losing my mind and I need to go to a hospital.
The raven fluffs out its feathers and beats its wings hard against its body.
“Get . . . ?out.” The voice is nearly human, but not. It’s like a voice that comes out of a toy.
The bird lifts off the branch and ascends into the sky.
I readjust my hood, shove my hands into my pockets, and head toward the street.
I need to get home. I need to tell my mom what I just saw and maybe I need to be sedated or something.
I step out of the enclave and onto the path that leads up to the road.
I glance back in the direction of the falls, halfway expecting to see the raven again but then I see .
. . ?something else. A figure is standing just off the main path in the shadow of the surrounding trees.
They’re dressed in a black parka with a fur-lined hood pulled tight around their face, hands in their pockets, with dark pants and boots.
I quickly try to calculate how fast I can get up the rest of the path and into the road where there might be other people around, but this person is too close.
They take a step toward me.
“Sorry,” I say, stepping back. I don’t know what for but I’m trying to let them know I’m not a threat.
The person slowly removes their gloved hand from their pocket and extends it toward me.
I stumble back, then make a break for it.
I sprint up the rest of the path, scramble up the embankment and onto the sidewalk where the road is quiet and mostly empty.
My heart hammers in my chest as I glance back.
The person is still just standing there.
“Calm the hell down,” I whisper to myself. This is a public place. A literal tourist attraction in the summer. Even in the winter people come here all the time.
I turn away from the figure and continue up Lake Street, walking as fast as I can.
I feel stupid for being so jumpy and wondering if I’m gonna need therapy to deal with what are clearly hallucinations brought on by my grief.
I’m pretty sure it has something to do with being back in that place where Noah and I had stood together not so long ago.
I head down the hill, veering into the street when the snow berms block the way.
Halfway to the bottom, I realize that my footsteps aren’t the only ones crunching across the icy terrain.
I push down my hood and glance back over my shoulder.
Not close enough for them to reach out and touch me but close enough for me to hear their boots on the snow, is the figure in the black parka.