chapter seven #2
The thing that’s most horrifying and sad about my nightmares is that they’re banal, like scenes from a bad TV movie, fraught with melodramatic sadness and entirely generic.
There’s nothing truly Mom in them. Lying in the crisp white bed, she’s in a washed-out pale blue hospital gown, and all the color is faded from her face and hair and eyes.
On the windowsill there’s a row of bland sympathy cards beside a vase of plasticlike calla lilies.
In real life, she hates phony cards and fake flowers.
She loves to grow her own flowers: fat peonies that droop on their stems, roses that are riddled with holes from bugs, daffodils that shrivel within a week.
When she moved into my apartment, she could only bring a fraction of her plants, but still her flowers have overrun the apartment and the tiny corner of the yard that the landlord granted us.
She also loves handwritten notes. She keeps stationery, rich thick ivory paper, that she fills with her swooping handwriting any time a card is called for.
Thinking about her ridiculous notes makes my throat constrict.
I swallow hard and follow Claire outside again.
Around us, the light is failing fast. The sky is auburn colored in the west and dusty dark blue in the east. Everything is
beginning to look gray and muted, as if the sinking sun is siphoning the colors out of the world as it sets. I pull the desk
drawer, the one that held the paper clips, off the junk pile, and I cart it inside to cover the bottom half of the kitchen
window.
As I nail the drawer over the missing window panes, I wonder what Mom is doing right now.
She’s most likely home, cooking herself dinner, worrying about me, with the TV a low-level hum in the background so that there are other voices in the apartment.
She’ll be shredding fresh basil to top a tomato.
She’ll have the window open over the sink (rather than nailed shut with a desk drawer), and her herb collection on the sill would be swaying in the breeze.
She has a healthy collection of basil and sage and rosemary, due to the fact she always remembers to water her plants.
I’d thrown out my last Christmas cactus—the only plant I was responsible for—because it was a desiccated husk.
I wonder what she’d think of where I am, of this house, of Lost, of Claire, of Peter.
I’ll tell her about it when I’m home, I promise myself.
Maybe it will distract her from thinking about what a horrible person I am for leaving in the first place.
We have one window left that I want to cover, the one in the door. It isn’t large, and we find a sign from a deli to cover
it. I hammer it on, driving a nail through a painted pickle. It feels satisfying to bash the nails as hard as I can.
“I’m hungry,” Claire announces.
“You’re saying that because of the pickle.”
“Or because I’m hungry.”
She skips out the door, and I catch her arm before she’s across the porch. She looks at me quizzically. “It’s getting dark,”
I say, waving my hand at the deepening blue sky and the thickening shadows. I am trying not to think about what this place
will be like when it’s pitch-black. I don’t want to be alone—Mr. Rabbit doesn’t count as company. Plus, Claire could encounter
danger, like homicidal townies, feral dogs, or bandicoots, though I’m not entirely sure what a bandicoot is. Rodent of some
kind.
She pats my hand as if to reassure me and then wiggles out of my grasp. “You stay here. I’ll be back.” She darts out the door,
and I start to follow but then I hear the howl again. It freezes my body in place, even though my mind intends for me to chase
after Claire. The howl is echoed by another wolf or coyote or feral dog or hell beast on the opposite side. By the time my
bones unlock, Claire has disappeared into the shadows of the lawn and the towering junk pile. I swear under my breath.
Stepping off the porch, I call softly, “Claire?” I don’t dare shout.
It feels as if the desert is listening. I wait, straining to hear any sound of her.
But there’s only wind. It blows my hair against my face, and I wipe the strands away.
Shadows are everywhere, layered thick like cloth, wrapping and hiding everything.
The other houses blot out the deep blue sky.
She could be near or inside any of them.
I don’t think she stayed in this yard but still I call again softly, “Claire, we can wait and find food in the morning. It’s just one night. Come back. Please.”
The evening air smells almost sweet, which surprises me, given the junk pile. I’d expect it to smell like overripe fish or
gym socks. Instead it smells like fresh mesquite and sage, like heated earth and dust. Overhead, there are stars spreading
across the sky. It’s so stunningly beautiful that it freezes me as thoroughly as the bone-chilling howl did a few minutes
earlier. I look for familiar constellations—Orion, the Big Dipper, Scorpius—but I don’t see them. Just an array of stars,
scattered like glitter sprinkled over black felt.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” a voice comes out of the darkness.
I yelp, bolt inside the house, and slam the door. I then remember that Claire is out there with whoever spoke. Crap, I think.
Staring at the closed door, I can’t bring myself to open it again. Instead, knowing I’m a coward, I press my face against
the half of the window that is intact and not covered by the deli sign. I peer out at the mountainous shadow of the junk pile
on the lawn. I don’t see any movement, but of course it’s dark and—
Outside, a face presses itself against the glass.
I shriek again.
He grins.
Peter, my brain tells me. It’s Peter. I consider for a moment whether that makes me feel safer or not. I don’t trust him, but unlike
the people in town, he doesn’t seem to want to hurt me. He did find me shelter, as he promised. And maybe he can help me find
a way home, even though he and Claire said he couldn’t. I open the door.
He’s leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, which makes his muscles bulge.
He pushed my car to town without breaking a sweat, so I shouldn’t be surprised that he looks strong enough to lift me over his head and twirl me like I’m a ballerina.
But still, I stare at him. He’s nearly too beautiful to be real.
He’s also grinning at me as if I’ve done something monumentally amusing.
“Little pig, little pig, let me come in.”
“Didn’t you just leave?” I ask.
“I got bored.”
“You know it ruins a dramatic exit if you return a half hour later.”
“Next time, I’ll leave in a puff of smoke,” he promises.
I step out of the house onto the porch. “Did you see Claire—Wait, can you do that? The puff of smoke thing?” I don’t mean
to be distracted when Claire could be in danger, but he seems so casually earnest.
“Water vapor, actually.”
“Really?”
“No. Sadly, I have no puffing abilities whatsoever. Told you, all I do is find people.”
“Can you find Claire?” And the Missing Man. And a way home.
“Not unless she’s lost in the void.” He scans the yard and the houses beyond. “She knows to be careful. Have faith in her.”
But I think I hear a note of doubt in his voice. Or maybe that’s me, projecting my own fear onto what I hear. In a singsong
voice, he adds, “‘All the world is made of faith, trust, and pixie dust.’ Except our dust is not exactly pixie dust.”
I listen to the wind cross the desert, stirring up brambles in the loose dirt. It’s still warm. I sit at the edge of the porch
and stare out into the darkness. I wish I dared turn the porch light on, to force back the encroaching shadows. “She was hungry.
Who takes care of her here? And the other kids in town?”
“You ask the wrong questions.” Peter steps up onto the porch railing. He walks along it, balancing, and it creaks under his weight. Any second it will snap. Before it can, he reaches up, grabs the gutter overhead, and swings forward to land catlike on the ground.
“How do I go home?”
“Better. But still not quite it.”
“How do I find what I lost?”
“Close.”
I want to yell at Peter, shake him until he tells me how to go home. But I don’t want to alienate the only person with answers
who’s willing to talk to me. “So tell me. What should I be asking?”
He scoops a button off the ground and tosses it into the air. It’s a black disc that winks in the moonlight. “You could ask
why the caged bird sings. Or what is in a name? ‘That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’” He catches
the button.
Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Stay calm. He might not even know how absolutely infuriating he is. Gorgeous,
yes, but infuriating. “Where did you find Mr. Rabbit?”
“You know that’s a highly unoriginal name.”
“Can you just try to answer a question? Any question?”
“Granted, it’s more dignified than Mr. Bunny.”
I peer into the darkness for any hint of movement. She’s just a kid. I shouldn’t have let her wander off. I picture everything
that could have happened to her: tripped over junk in the dark and broke her ankle; found by hungry feral dogs and ripped
to bits; lost in the dark . . . or more lost. Lost in Lost. She knows this place better than I do, I think. My bumbling around after her won’t help. “Claire?” I call softly, knowing it won’t work.
She bounds out of the darkness like a happy puppy.
Her arms are full of shoebox-size boxes.
School lunch boxes. “Peter!” Her voice is full of joy.
Running to him, she dumps the boxes into his arms, and then she skips over to me.
He dramatically mimes being wounded by this quick rejection.
She doesn’t see. “Entire school bus with backpacks and lunch boxes!”
“Great,” I say, and in the light of the moon, I see her smile. She has the ideal kid smile, one missing front tooth and one