After Zero Page 8

  The music is closer than ever.

  Something moves on the front porch of the house. I crouch behind a tree trunk and squint. Someone is sitting there, I realize, half hidden by a post, playing a violin: a boy, maybe a few years older than me. He must have been playing there the whole time.

  The front door of the house opens. A woman with a braid of white hair steps onto the porch and puts a tea tray on a table. The boy stops playing and sets the violin on his lap. As he moves toward the table, I see he’s using his arms to roll himself in a wheelchair. The old woman pours three cups of tea and sits in a rocking chair, just as another boy in a wheelchair glides out and joins them. They all sip their tea and gesture with their hands. I can’t understand what they’re saying, but I hear laughter. Not like the cackling of the buzz-cut boy’s cohort, but a light laughter that reminds me of wind chimes. Then the second boy picks up a case off the floor and opens it, taking out another violin.

  Both boys raise their instruments and nod.

  A fast-paced jig sends currents of life through my veins. These aren’t violins I’m hearing now, but fiddles—a different kind of music born from the same strings. The old woman claps along. The boys bob their heads as they slide the bows back and forth. They’re far enough away that I can’t discern the details of their faces, only square jaws and thick eyebrows. So thick that I can see, even from here, how they almost meet in the middle.

  My heart beats with the old woman’s clapping and then surpasses it, racing. It’s too easy. And yet, isn’t it them? The boys from the photographs, but taller, older? And the wheelchairs… Did a car accident put them in those wheelchairs?

  This must be Glen Forest Cottage. Granny P’s place. Of course. They’ve been living with Granny P this whole time!

  As I listen, I already know that as soon as they see me, everything will be fine—more than fine. I’m not even worried about what to say or do. I can barely stop myself from springing to my feet and flailing my arms and shouting across the clearing.

  But I want to do this right. I have to do this right. I’ve come too far not to.

  I notice some wildflowers growing near my feet, yellow like the cottage. I smile. There are three. It’s meant to be. I’ll give one flower to each of them, and then I’ll explain who I am, but they’ll know it’s me anyway when they see my eyebrows, and we’ll cry and laugh and kiss and hug. Maybe my brothers will tease me for giving such a girlie gift. “Flowers…that’s something only our sis would do.” And they’ll tousle my hair, kind of like I saw Conn do to Fin once, and they’ll hug me again, and they’ll play me a jig, and maybe I’ll clap, even dance, and then I’ll bring them home, Granny P too, and my mother will be able to look at me and will maybe even bake a cake that we’ll all share on my birthday, and every year will go on that way. I see exactly how it could be.

  The problem is getting to the cottage. This cliff is high enough that I can’t jump it.

  As the boys finish their jig and start another, I spot a path coming out of the woods at the right side of the cottage. There—I need to find that path. That should be easy since I haven’t seen any other paths around; it must be the only one. I pull the flowers out of the ground: one, two, three. Stealing one more glance at the merriment on the porch, I veer right and follow the cliff edge. My whole body trembles with excitement. Who will catch sight of me first? Will it be Emerson? Eustace? Granny P? Maybe all three will turn and see me at once.

  I hurry along, waiting for the ground to slope down and the cliff edge to end. It keeps going. It has already taken me so far that, when I look back, I can’t see the glen anymore—only trees. I peer down at more trees below. Still too high to jump. I run faster along the edge, squeezing the flowers’ stems. The light through the trees weakens, and the wind picks up, whipping and nipping me. Then, finally, the ground slopes down, down, down, until the woods become level once more. I veer to the left, back in the direction of the glen, irked at how far the cliff took me. But it’s okay—I just have to find the path.

  Where is the path?

  Time slips, and precious daylight with it. The path doesn’t show itself.

  Did I pass it? Did I go too far to the left? Or not far enough? I turn in place, round and round. It’s here somewhere. I just need to concentrate. I realize I can’t hear the music anymore. My ears strain against the wind. Maybe my brothers stopped playing. Maybe they went inside the cottage. They must have.

  Or am I farther away than I thought?

  More trees. No path.

  I try the opposite direction. More trees. No path.

  I circle this way, then that, listening for the music, watching for the path, waiting for the woods to open up, for the cottage to appear out of the trees, welcoming me.

  It doesn’t.

  How could I have lost it so fast? Sweat seeps through my clothes despite the cold. I turn back, trying to retrace my steps as I fight against the wind.

  But when enough time has passed that I should be back where I started, I’m not. And the woods are dimming. My vision is dimming. If I could just think straight, figure out where I took a wrong turn…

  Something like vertigo floods me again, only I’m nowhere near a cliff this time. I slump to my knees, dropping the flowers. It isn’t fair. The cottage was right in front of my eyes. My brothers were right in front of my eyes. I dig my fingers into the ground, letting dirt clump under my nails. Tears sting my cheeks.

  The raven lands on the ground near me. He’s probably come to mock me with his stare, but I don’t have the strength to care. I let him watch as I lie down on my side. Pine needles press lines into my cheek, and acorns prod my ribs. More teardrops dribble off my face because holding them in takes too much effort.

  “Don’t cry, love.”

  I blink. Through the tears I see an old woman standing in the shadow of a tree. The Beady look-alike swoops up onto her shoulder.

  I sit up slowly and squint. As leafy shadows flicker over her, I catch hints of a nose, a chin, a white braid flapping in the wind. Though it’s hard to make her out, I feel sure of one thing: she’s the woman I saw at the cottage with my brothers.

  “Are you my grandmother?” I wipe my cheeks.

  “Look at you…” The old woman’s—Granny P’s?—voice is a wheeze, a whisper I can hardly hear over the wind. “Spitting image of the boys.”

  The boys. My brothers. “Can I meet them?” My voice cracks.

  The old woman hesitates. The shadows keep dancing over her, and I wish they’d stop so I could get a good look at her.

  “Don’t they want to meet me?” I wring my hands. I should have known. I’m the reason they’re in wheelchairs after all. Why would they want anything to do with me?

  “Of course they do.” Granny P’s shape starts to shrink, backing away. “But it’s not the right time. The truth is you shouldn’t be here, and I shouldn’t—” A gust of wind in my ear cuts her off. Her shape turns, disappearing behind a tree trunk.

  “Wait.” I fumble to my feet, calling after her. “Wait. Why are my brothers here? Why did my mother send them away?” No answer. I run to the tree trunk and peer behind it. Just shadows. I listen for her voice in the wind and search for her figure in the fading light, finding neither. How could she leave me already? After I came all this way?

  “You’ll understand soon.”

  I whirl around.

  The old woman stands in the shadow of a different tree, the raven still on her shoulder, preening his feathers.

  “Does that mean I’ll get to see them?” Hope rises in my chest.

  “Just wait until your birthday, love.”

  “My birthday?”

  “That was the agreement.”

  I remember something my mother said in the shed… You would have found out the right way. At the right time… Did she mean my thirteenth birthday?

  “You’ll get you
r birthday present this year.” Granny P darkens each time I blink. She’s almost as dark as the raven now. “As long as—” Another blast of wind clouts my ears.

  “As long as what?”

  “Don’t say a word to anyone,” I hear. “Can you do that for me? For the boys?”

  The raven stops preening, as if waiting for my answer.

  Leaves waltz around me, tickling my face, blowing through my hair, drying my tears. “Yes.” I’ve never felt so sure of anything. “But are my brothers okay?”

  “Don’t worry about them.” The old woman nods, and the raven takes off, soaring up above me. “They’re well looked after.”

  A calmness settles over me. I tilt my head skyward and watch the raven fly through the treetops, out of sight. As the wind dies, I draw my eyes back to Granny P. But she isn’t there. Leaves and feathers flutter to the ground. I search behind tree trunks and swivel my head in all directions, but it’s no use: I’m alone.

  Chapter 12

  Don’t say a word to anyone.

  I pluck a black feather off the ground and stare at it. Between my fingers, it dances in and out of focus. I try to concentrate. Did Granny P mean any word at all? Or only words about my brothers? I probably should have asked. But she came and went so quickly, so quietly. It makes me wonder what sort of person could do that, what sort of old woman would live out here in the woods. What sort of lady a raven would perch on. Someone different, someone witchy… Not bad-witchy, though. She was good-witchy—I could tell. And maybe if she trusts the raven, I should too. Is that why he’s been stalking me? Because Granny P sent him to look after me?

  It takes a lot of effort to raise my arm, but I manage to clip the feather in my hair with one of my barrettes. If Granny P meant only certain words, she would have said so. And even if she did mean certain words, knowing me, I’d let those words slip, say something I shouldn’t, something about my brothers’ whereabouts or the fact that I’ve seen them, even when I thought I was being careful. Better to be safe than sorry. I’ve already messed things up once for my family. I can’t risk messing things up twice.

  I wish I had my notebook so I could look at the quote on the inside cover, the words floating across the illustrated swans. But I can remember them well enough in my head: Silence is the means of avoiding misfortune. If only I knew why I can’t see my brothers yet. Maybe no one’s supposed to know they live with my grandmother. Maybe that’s what the “agreement” is all about. But I’ll understand soon. I’ll get my birthday present, like Granny P said, as long as I don’t slip up.

  My birthday is six days away. That’s nothing. I can keep my mouth shut until then. If anyone can, I can. The past seven months rush back to me: Green Pasture. The plan. The tally marks. The bubble. I thought it had all been one huge disaster, an experiment gone wrong. But really it had been preparing me for something bigger. All along, without knowing, I’d been training for something important. For this.

  I smile. With a burst of new energy, I start walking in the direction I came from, or think I came from. Why don’t you talk, Elise? Why are you so quiet all the time? Even though I won’t be able to answer these questions out loud, I’ll have a real reason now. And not just any reason. A good one. My brothers. My family. The woods are dimmer than ever, and my feet heavier than ever, but it’s all okay because finally, finally I have an explanation.

  • • •

  It’s all okay, I keep telling myself, even as my belly thunders and the woods go on. Even as questions pound in my head. When—if—the woods ever end, where will I come out? Where will I go? I don’t see how I can go home. I don’t see how I can face my mother, be under the same roof as her, with the way we left things. There was a time when I could have gone to Mel’s house. But even if that were an option, it wouldn’t be a good idea, not with my promise to Granny P. I’d want to tell Mel everything.

  I keep hoping that I’ll come across my backpack on the ground somewhere, and that the box of crackers I packed will still be in it. But of course there’s no sign of it. There’s no sign of anything familiar. Where is that stupid stream? I don’t know if I’ve passed these trees before. All I know is that I need to make it out of these woods before dark. And I need to keep moving, or I might freeze in these damp clothes. It may be spring officially, but winter lingers.

  Crack-boom.

  A gunshot behind me chills me to my core. I stumble and peer over my shoulder, but the woods are dusky in the weakening light. I hear voices. A dog barking. They’re back. I thought I’d escaped them for good.

  Crack-boom.

  Another gunshot, closer now. I hurl my body away from the sounds. If I let them get me, they’ll make me pay for escaping last time. They’ll kill me with their guns and bury me in the woods to make sure I never tell anyone what they did and stole. I have to keep running, though I don’t know how I’m going to last. How long can a person run on empty?

  I push my legs. Any race I run in track will feel like nothing compared to this. That is, if I live to do track again. Onward, breathe, in through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The air feels too thin. But the woods are thinning too. The trees are changing, softening into bushes…

  And trimmed grass.

  And a shining swing set.

  I freeze at the edge of the woods. Someone’s backyard.

  My legs turn to jelly, giving way. I shouldn’t have stopped moving.

  “Hey.” Feet pad against grass somewhere behind me. “Hey!”

  The hound must have led the hunters right back to me. My heart hammers in panic. I can practically feel them on top of me again, can feel the boot pressing into my face. I’ve got to get up before they can grab me and drag me back into the woods. I crawl forward in the grass and glance across the yard at the house. A window glows: a beacon of yellow. Someone must be home. A cry of “help” rises in my throat, but the bubble forms around me, blocking its escape. I try to push through—then I remember: Don’t say a word to anyone. How could I have forgotten so quickly? The people inside probably wouldn’t have heard me anyway. Good thing the bubble is one step ahead of me.

  Trust the bubble. That should be my new motto.

  A boot plants itself in the grass next to me. I summon my muscles, or what’s left of them, and swing around, punching him hard, wherever my fist hits first.

  “Aaugh!”

  It turns out I hit a private area. He staggers back, clutching himself, his face contorted.

  But it’s not the buzz-cut boy’s face, or either of his buddies’.

  “Elise?” Conn Karney squints at me.

  I scuttle backward in a crab walk. I won’t let my confusion set me off my guard. I feel bad about hitting him, but he’ll survive. I need to get away while he’s down.

  A girl comes running up behind him.

  No, not more people. I want fewer. None.

  Fin frowns at Conn. “What happened to you?” She looks over at me. “Is that…?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “No clue.” Conn leans on his knees, still scrunched up in pain. His binoculars dangle from his neck. “Might be lost. She punched me before I could ask.”

  Fin walks toward me. “You okay?”

  I nod so she’ll leave me alone.

  “I’m fine too, thanks for asking,” Conn mutters.

  I stand to show them I’m leaving. They mean well, but I can’t afford people talking to me, expecting me to say things. I can’t let anyone put me at risk of trying to speak again and breaking my promise. I look past the side of the house toward the front yard. I can see a road and some kind of orchard on the other side. I don’t know where I am, but the road will at least take me somewhere. The woods will only get me lost again. Or killed.

  As I walk across the yard, the edges of my vision blacken. My legs bend and
flop like licorice twists. Oh no. I focus on the road ahead. My feet keep crossing in front of each other. The only way to stop it is to sit down. I drop to the ground.

  Fin leans over me, feeling my forehead, saying words. “She’s burning up. Help me get her inside.”

  I try to shake my head, but none of me can move. Conn takes my other arm, and as they lift me, I think I must have been reborn back in those woods, because I’m like a newborn. I can’t talk, I can’t walk, I can barely lift my head.

  Newborn. Born new. I let the thought carry me off on its wings.

  Chapter 13

  A swirly off-white ceiling. Striped wallpaper. A painting of a beach. These are the sights that greet me when I open my eyes.

  I prop myself onto my elbows. A lamp glows on the bedside table. Usually I can’t sleep with a light on, even a night-light. I must have really been in a bad way. I look around the rest of the room. Aside from the twin bed and the nightstand, a treadmill sits in the middle of the floor, and skis, snowboards, beach chairs, umbrellas, and other stuff are heaped in corners. I look out the window, but it’s all dark. What time is it?

  I switch the lamp to a brighter setting and pick up the hand mirror lying beside it. Puffy eyes look back at me from under big, uneven eyebrows. A feather is clipped in my hair. The feather… Everything rushes back to me. The cottage, my brothers, Granny P. It’s all a little foggy, maybe because I’m still waking up. Did I really see my brothers and talk to Granny P? I touch the feather in my hair; it’s as real as anything. As real as the air I’m breathing. As real as the echo of fiddles in my head. The drumming of purpose in my chest…

  “You’re awake.”