chapter thirteen #3
“Cook at our house! Oh, pleeease! Your meatloaf is better than cupcakes!” Claire grabs their hands and drags them toward the
little yellow house. Peter and I both lunge forward to stop her, but it’s too late. She’s already propelling them to the house,
and they’ve already guessed that we live there.
I hear Peter swear under his breath, and I can’t disagree. I felt safer when no one knew we were here. Granted, they’ve promised
to be friendly and nonhomicidal . . . “Maybe we can trust them,” I say softly. “They seem grateful.”
He snorts.
“Why don’t you like them? Did he hurt you? He attacked you, didn’t he?” I want to ask what happened, was he hurt, was it serious.
But his expression is closed.
“Let’s say I’m not exactly the beloved son of the townspeople of Lost. I brought them here, after all, never mind that I saved
them from oblivion.” He strikes a pose. “The pain of the misunderstood hero.” He sniffs dramatically and then drops the pose.
“Pity me yet?”
“You saved me. Multiple times. You’re not the bad guy here. In fact, you stayed in Lost, continuing to help me and now helping
Sean. It’s the Missing Man who left. He’s the one that people should be angry at. Not you. Not me.” I realize that I’ve raised
my voice and that Victoria, Sean, and Claire have stopped skipping toward the house and are staring at me. I feel my face
heat up and know I’m blushing.
Sean clears his throat and says, “I make a seriously mean meatloaf.” Claire smiles at him, and he ruffles her hair.
“‘Lay on, Macduff.’” Peter bows. “‘And damned be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”’ After all, one can never have enough meatloaf.”
All of us troop up to the porch. Scurrying forward, I scoot past our new guests before Claire can unlock the door. “Can you
two please turn around?”
Victoria opens her mouth to object, but Sean pivots to face the junk pile. Clamping her mouth shut, Victoria turns, too. Her
back is stiff, and I know she isn’t happy to be mistrusted. Considering she had a gun pointed at me not long ago—and still
carries it—I refuse to feel guilty for my inhospitality. Blocking the mechanism with my body, I unlock the door.
“Okay,” I say cheerfully, as if I didn’t want to escort them to the gate and send them away. I swing the door open and lead
our guests inside. “Welcome to our home. And if you try to ‘fillet’ Peter again . . .” I try to think of a threat that would
carry weight, and I can’t.
“That was past,” Sean says solemnly.
Peter studies the ceiling and says nothing.
In a show of politeness, Victoria leans her shotgun against the wall. I shoot a look at Claire and then nod at the gun. She
knows what I want her to do. Regardless of how much she likes Sean or his meatloaf, she’ll hide the gun first chance she gets.
“Give me just one minute . . .” I duck into my bedroom and change into dry clothes as quickly as possible. I emerge to find
that Sean is in the kitchen with Peter and that Victoria is poking her head into each of the rooms. I feel like a dog whose
territory has been invaded.
Claire is following her like a puppy. If Victoria does anything dicey, Claire will shout. Or simply pull her knife. Victoria’s
gun may still be in the hallway, but Claire is quick.
“Would you like a tour?” I try not to sound frosty—she’s not an enemy anymore.
“You managed to turn this place into a home.” Victoria waves her hand to gesture at the house and smiles, as if to make it clear that this is a compliment.
I summon a smile to match hers. “I plan to strip the wallpaper and paint the walls a soft blue.” I’ve already made a few changes
to the hall: the photos of an unknown family are gone, and instead, one of the lost Degas hangs on the wall. “Still have a
lot of work to do.” I lead her to the living room, where the front of the train engine juts through the wall. It’s broken
a bookcase, and the books are spilled all over the floor. Bits of plaster dust have settled all over the couches. “Also, some
cleaning to do.”
I show her the dining room and point out the built-in cabinets stuffed with unmatched china. Claire likes to play tea party,
and so Peter and I have been collecting teacups and saucers from a hundred different china patterns. Victoria admires the
chandelier. Claire and I then trail her to the bedrooms. Claire has her bedroom piled high with her finds, primarily stuffed
animals and dolls. I wish I’d made my bed. And put away more of my clothes. At least the closet door is shut so I don’t have
to explain Peter’s nest.
Victoria then climbs the stairs to the attic room, the only room that I haven’t yet decorated. I follow her, while Claire
lingers behind to hide the shotgun. Victoria waits for me at the top of the stairs. “This room has potential,” she says. “You
could add some couches . . .”
I’m shaking my head, though I don’t realize it at first. I can picture this room so clearly, filled with easels and canvases
and supplies . . . Stopping myself, I force myself to smile. “I’m glad you found what you lost.” She can go home, if the Missing
Man returns. I don’t have that option, and it’s hard, very hard, not to feel jealousy itch inside me. She can see her family
again. She can rejoin the world, reclaim her life, whatever it was. It hurts, thinking about it, and so I try to push the
ache deep down like I always do and pretend it’s enough to paint walls and collect teacups.
She smiles. When she smiles, she’s a truly beautiful woman with features that would be stunning on a billboard or on the cover of a magazine.
Jet-black hair. Flawless skin. High cheekbones.
Red lips. “He never would have proposed if you hadn’t found this ring.
” She holds up her hand to admire it. The star sapphire winks in the light.
“He might have. Sometimes it takes almost losing someone . . .” I swallow hard, not able to finish the sentence. I miss my
mother so badly that it hurts. Most days, I’m able to keep from thinking about home, but with Victoria and her glow in front
of me, it’s harder.
Victoria waves her hand. “Spare me the clichés. You performed a miracle here. I’m saying thank you. Just say ‘you’re welcome’
and we’re done.”
“You’re welcome.” I venture a question. “Did you . . . did you lose a husband?”
“He cheated on me, and I torched his diner. So in a way, yes.” Victoria turns away before I can react, though I have no idea
how to react. “Come on. Sean should be finished taking inventory of your kitchen.” She clip-clops down the stairs in her high
heels.
I feel as though I’ve missed a moment that I should have seized. Something important that could have happened or could have
been said . . . but it’s gone, as certainly as a popped bubble.
In the kitchen, Sean is opening all the cabinets and drawers. He dumps out dozens of half-used spices, as well as a drawer
full of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise packets from fast-food restaurants, also packets of strawberry jelly. (Claire loves
strawberry jelly.) He also discovers our cabinet of cookies. (Claire has a knack for finding those.) He sorts through our
cutlery drawer. We have an assortment of random kitchen items, the oddballs on wedding registries that people think they want
and then shove into a corner of their basement and forget they ever owned. I still haven’t found a decent saucepan.
Stalking back and forth through the kitchen, Sean makes little humphs of approval and then dismay and then back to approval.
He unearths a pomegranate. “Unusual.” He adds it to the growing pile of ingredients next to the stove.
I’d found the pomegranate the other day, but then Peter called me Persephone and I hadn’t been able to eat it.
I didn’t want to find a way home and then discover I had to return every six months.
Odd the things that one becomes suspicious about when one doesn’t have any real hope to cling to.
It seemed too big a risk—as if what I eat has anything to do with where I am.
Anyway, who eats only six seeds of a pomegranate?
That’s like eating six raisins and declaring yourself full.
Hopping up on the counter, Claire examines the ingredients Sean has selected, including the pomegranate and a stack of half-eaten
fast-food cheeseburgers. Victoria has drifted into the kitchen and is unwrapping the cheeseburgers, removing the buns, pickles,
and cheese.
I wonder where Peter is, and I step into the hallway to listen for him. I see him in the dining room. He’s climbed on top
of the table. I wonder if he climbs things when he wants to flee—he always climbs on rooftops to escape. Or maybe he climbs
to think. Or he wants to remind me that he has better balance than I do. I don’t know why he climbs things, and I don’t care
why. I only care that Peter is unhappy. I don’t question that feeling too closely. Joining him in the dining room, I climb
onto the table with him. “You okay?” I ask.
“You know, we could leave, right now, while they’re distracted.” He takes my hands, and I feel as if my hands are tingling.
I like the warmth of his hands, probably too much. I remember how I felt in the ocean, so aware of him. “Find a new house.
Bring Claire. There’s nothing here we can’t replace.”
I think of the Degas. And of the empty attic room.
And of the hallway that I plan to paint.
And of Peter’s closet, and the way our toiletries are comingled in the bathroom.
I know it shouldn’t matter since this is temporary, but still .
. . I draw my hands away from his. “It would be nice to have allies in town. Especially if Lost is shrinking.”
“I’m your ally. Isn’t that enough?”
“It would be nice to have a few more people who don’t want to shoot me on sight.”
“I’ll keep you safe.” His eyes are intense. I feel as though I could be caught in them and never be able to look anywhere
else, never see anything else.
I slide off the table and tuck the chairs in so I’ll be doing something instead of drowning in his eyes. I never meant to
become comfortable here, to think about wallpaper and paint, to be drawn to Peter, to care about Claire, to forget about home
even for a second. But it’s been the only way to survive each day. “You can’t keep me safe every second. You aren’t with me
every second.”
“Maybe I should be.” He jumps off the table beside me. I have to look at him again. His eyes are like the night sky, dark
with light in them.
He’s standing close to me. We aren’t touching, but we are only centimeters apart. I feel as though my skin is vibrating from
being so close to him. “You have to find lost people,” I say. Every day he goes into the void to search for lost people. Once
he was sure Claire and I were safe enough, he didn’t shirk his responsibility. I admire that about him. Misunderstood hero.
“True.” He stares at me, too, as if he wants to drink me in, and I stare back, caught in his gaze. Then he cocks his head
and grins. “You know, sometimes I don’t know whether to shake you or kiss you.”
My eyes fix on his lips, and my lungs feel tight. “Me neither.” There’s an awkward pause. Neither of us moves. My eyes slide
toward the kitchen. “We should make sure they aren’t planning on poisoning us.”
He nods, and we go into the kitchen, side by side but not touching.