chapter seventeen
A buoy tolls outside my bedroom window, and I wake. Shooting out of bed, I launch myself at the window and look out. Waves
lick the baseboards of the house. Whitecaps crest directly beneath me. It’s coming, I think. The void is coming for me! I grip the windowsill as if it will keep me tethered to the ground, safe from the void. The air tastes thick with salt. My
mouth feels as dry as the desert that the ocean has eaten.
I step back from the window and try to take deep, calming breaths. It doesn’t help. All it does is make me feel like I’m gasping
for air like a waterless goldfish. “Peter?”
He’d slept in my bed again last night, his arms around me, his body warm. I hear the mattress creak and know he’s standing
directly behind me. He puts his arms around my waist and draws me against him. I fit against the curve of his chest. “It’s
high tide.” His breath is soft against my ear and on my neck.
“The void . . .”
“. . . isn’t any closer. Besides, you went in and you came out. You don’t need to be afraid of it.” He pauses. “Of course,
it could destroy everything and everyone else, but c’est la vie.”
“I found my prom dress.”
“You told me.”
“Tiffany’s dead.”
“You said that, too.”
I’d nearly pounced on him when he’d returned last night, telling him everything that had happened from the moment that Victoria
and Sean had shown up with the oatmeal through everything with the dead girl who ran the Pine Barrens Motel. He’d listened,
and when I’d told him I’d come out of the void, he’d kissed me.
Thinking of that kiss, I take another deep breath, and it works better this time. I feel my rib cage loosen, and I can suck
in air again. Out the window, I see he’s right—it’s only the ocean that’s closer. The void is a distant smudge on the horizon.
At least “helping” Tiffany didn’t make anything worse. “The lie seems to still be working. And Tiffany didn’t send a mob with
pitchforks after me. Maybe it will be a good day. Maybe you’ll find the Missing Man today!” As soon as I’ve said the words,
I wish I could suck them back.
He releases me and steps away. Twisting, I see his expression is closed and guarded. “I’ll begin my search,” he says stiffly.
“Peter . . .”
Claire races into my room. Even though she’s a little girl, she has elephant-loud footsteps. She jumps on the foot of the
bed. “Lauren, you have to get dressed! There are people outside. For you!”
Peter grabs my arms. “I’ll distract them. You climb out the back window and swim—”
Laughing, Claire bounces on the bed. “Don’t be silly! They don’t want to hurt her. Everyone wants her help.” She hops off
the bed and skips to my dresser. “You can’t let them see you in pj’s, though. You need pretty.” She pulls out a blue dress.
It flutters as she unfurls it.
“But—”
She steers me toward the shower.
Digging my heels in, I stop. “Claire, how many is ‘everyone’?”
She waves her hand in the air. “A bunch.”
“Claire.”
“Lots.”
“Claire!”
“It’s okay.” She darts into the bathroom and turns on the shower. She lays my towel out for me, fluffs it, and smiles. “You
can do this! You can help them! Save them!” I picture Claire with tiny pompoms. Amused by the image, I stop protesting and
let her shoo me in.
I take the fastest shower of my life. Scrubbing my hair dry, I study myself in the mirror. I look thinner, like my skin is
pinching my skull. The shadows under my eyes are tinged purple, as if I’ve been hit in the eyes. I pull on the dress that
Claire picked out for me, and I drag a brush through my hair as I walk out the door. Claire is waiting in the hallway. She
frowns at me, and then she grabs my hand and marches me into the bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed while she kneels on
the mattress and combs my hair. She hums to herself as she weaves in ribbons that she produces from hidden pockets on her
own yellow tulle dress. I begin to feel like an overly wrapped birthday present.
“Out of curiosity, are you making me look weird?”
“Yes.”
I turn my head to see her expression.
She pushes my head straight. “Stay still, please. You got to look like what they expect.”
I look out the window. I could stand up, walk away. I don’t think she’d resort to her knives to force me, but I’m transfixed
by the view out the window. The ocean roils and rolls. I notice it has ships on it: tall ships with triple masts, sunfish,
catamarans, sea kayaks, a cruise ship. All of them jostle between the waves. I don’t think they were there before my shower.
I can’t tell if there are any people on the boats.
“You’re sure they aren’t here to kill me?” I ask.
“I’m sure. Mostly sure.”
“Where’s Peter?”
“On the roof,” she says. “He’s not as sure.”
I try to look at her again, and she yanks on my hair. I wince. Looking back at the water, I think of the Pacific. I used to
wake to the sound of the ocean, back when we lived in a barely insulated cottage by the shore. At nine o’clock, Mom would
knock on my bedroom door and tell me not to waste the day. You only have so many glorious days per lifetime, she said, and
if you fritter them away, then you’ll come back as a penguin who has to brave winters in Antarctica as penance. I’d tell her
I like penguins and go back to sleep.
When she was diagnosed, Mom said I’d never ignore her again. A side benefit of dying, she claimed. Your words carry a lot
more weight. She then told me to floss daily, wear suntan lotion, and never, ever date a guy who doesn’t respect your dreams.
I told her I’d listen to every word she said if she didn’t say the word dying. She told me I had avoidance issues and gave me a self-help book, which I avoided reading, and she continued to talk about
dying.
Claire hops off the bed. She spins me so she can examine me from all angles. Bits of ribbon dangle at the edges of my vision.
“Claire . . .” I’m not certain how to delicately break it to her that I don’t want to look like a half-wrapped present—or
that I’m not sure I can “save” people. I don’t know how I found the ring and the newspaper.
“You look wise,” she says. “They need you to look wise. If they even think you can help them, even if you can’t, then they won’t kill you. Lauren, this is your chance to win them over, to fix what
happened in the diner.”
Oh. That . . . makes sense. I nod slowly. “Okay, go ahead.”
Claire smiles.
“What?”
“You really trust me.”
“Sure.”
“I told Peter from the start that you’re different.” She sounds very satisfied with herself. “Most grown-ups wouldn’t listen
to a kid.”
“You’re not an ordinary kid.” But I can’t argue with the sentiment. I had an uncle who liked to talk to me as if I was no
smarter than his pet Maltese. Less smart, in fact. I had on occasion contemplated biting him on the hand as he patted my shoulder
and told me how cute it was that I liked art, or how sweet that my mother still kept my artwork on the wall, even though I
was well out of elementary school, as if the paintings I’d labored over and poured my heart into were no better than the drawing
that I’d scrawled when I clutched a crayon in my hand, still plump with baby fat.
He was Mom’s older brother, and he’d talk to her that way sometimes, too. He’d notice what she hadn’t cleaned—the dust on
top of the refrigerator, the eggs inside that had expired a week ago, the mail that hadn’t been sorted, the shoes that were
scuffed, and he’d gently remark about how it was such a shame she was so busy, or how his wife miraculously juggled it all,
even though they were married and childless and she didn’t work, unlike Mom. Mom always tolerated it. She let it roll off
her back like water off a plastic tablecloth. Or at least she seemed to. It was one of those things we didn’t talk about,
like my father, like her father, like why she never went home for Thanksgiving, like why I broke up with that boyfriend that
everyone thought was better than sliced bread. He wasn’t. But he thought he was, too. And he took my best pair of sunglasses
when he left too. He didn’t respect me. Certainly didn’t respect my dreams. He might have respected my sunglasses.
Claire hugs me. “I trust you, too.” She releases me and skips out the door.
The dress that Claire picked out for me has a pocket, and I slide a knife into it. The weight makes me feel marginally better, even though I can’t imagine stabbing anyone with it. Following her, I head toward the front door.
I hear the crowd before I see it, a low buzz like a hornet’s nest, and I contemplate jumping out a window and swimming away.
I could do it. I’m a strong swimmer. Or I used to be. I can find a new house, scavenge for new things. Claire would be fine,
and eventually I could sneak back and fetch her and Peter. I’ve learned enough about how to survive here that I think I could
make it on my own, at least for a little while. But Claire has a grip on my hand.
She flings open the front door. In a dramatic voice, she says, “She was lost, and she suffered. But she has forgiven you and
is here to heal your soul!” I hear voices, rising in excitement—they’ve seen Claire’s glow.
Pulling my wrist, Claire yanks me outside.
I plaster a smile on my face and hope it looks more like a kind, benevolent smile, rather than maniacal, which is what it
feels like. This is a terrible idea, I think. I’m no savior. I’m glad that Peter is watching from the roof. I force myself not to look up and give him away as I walk onto the porch.
At least a dozen men, women, and kids are perched and lounging on the porch and junk pile. They’re rattier-looking than either
Victoria or Sean. One man is dressed in a coat sewn entirely from socks. One of the boys is wearing rags with so many holes
and stains that it looks as if a stiff breeze will blow it off his body. Another woman is in a sequin dress and draped with
diamond or rhinestone necklaces. Every finger is covered with enormous rings, three on each finger so that her knuckles cannot
even bend. Seeing me, all of them unwind from where they lay, and they rush forward.