I picture the gray-haired woman who’d waited for me near the school. She said a guy named Atlas was certain I’d come back to find her. That’s exactly the kind of thing Mr. Webster wants me to tell him about. But the words stick in my throat when I look at the car sitting on the opposite curb with the driver’s-side window cracked open.
Mr. Webster has to know the detectives are sitting outside my house, but he isn’t telling me about them. Maybe he’s doing what he has to in order to keep me safe. Maybe he doesn’t trust me not to flip out if I learn there is a chance I’m in danger. Maybe . . .
“Is there anything else you need to talk about?” Mr. Webster asks. “I have a number of important matters that require my attention before I leave the office today.”
My eyes stay glued on the car sitting outside. “I guess I just need to hear you say that you’ll tell me if you think the gang might come looking for me.”
“If I thought there was any chance they would seek you out or that you or your father were in danger, I would tell you, Merriel. Does that set your mind at ease?”
“It does,” I lie, because there doesn’t seem to be anything else I can say. “Thank you, Mr. Webster.”
“You’re welcome, Merriel. And don’t worry. The police are closing in on this gang as we speak. They won’t disrupt the peace and safety of the city much longer. Good day.”
The call goes dead before I choke out a good-bye. I stand at the window for several minutes watching—waiting for the dark blue car with the two men still inside to move or for something to happen.
Nothing does. That should make me feel better. Instead, I feel trapped.
I pace the living room, then turn on the screen and flip through the channels. There have to be a dozen logical reasons why Mr. Webster didn’t tell me about the detectives stationed outside the house, I tell myself. But as much as I try to keep calm, I can’t help but wonder and worry about everything I have seen and heard.
Had I found the paper on the ground like I told everyone, I wouldn’t have so many questions. But I didn’t find the paper on the ground. I’m aware of far more than I have admitted.
I know my mother’s paintings are the reason I was standing in the very place the man with the umbrella found me. He handed me that paper because I was there. That’s the reason I learned the word “verify.” While I want to think that is a coincidence, I can’t make myself believe it.
Mom’s paintings lead straight to that bridge for a reason. But why? If she had wanted me to learn the word, she could have just told me about it. Right?
And what does my mother have to do with a bunch of strangers who are being hunted by the government? Who was she really? And what had she hoped for when she created those canvases?
I ask those questions of myself as I prepare dinner, walking back to the living room every few minutes to see if the blue car has moved from its spot next to the curb. It’s still there.
By six o’clock the meatballs are out of the oven, the spaghetti is cooked, and I have decided to tell Dad about everything. Maybe he knows something, anything, that can help me make sense of what’s going on. But when my father comes through the door, he holds his right arm tight to his side and hurries past, saying that he will wash up quickly before dinner.
He’s hoping I didn’t notice the bag in his hand. I wish I hadn’t.
When he comes back downstairs, I tell him about my finals first, not mentioning Mr. Webster’s visit. Before I can do that, I have to ease the conversation toward the topic of my mother. I use my art final to broach the subject. “It’s hard to imagine Mom ever being happy drawing a bowl of fruit.” Maybe not the greatest transition, but it was the best I could come up with. Dad flinches. His fork stills, and I force myself to forge ahead. “We never talk about her,” I say quietly. “We should talk about her more.”
Dad looks down at his plate. “What do you want to talk about?”
I take a deep breath and ignore the ache growing in my chest. “Did she stop loving us? Did she stop loving me?”
Dad looks up. “Of course not. Your mother loved you more than anything!”
“I guess I feel like, when she died, I didn’t really know her anymore. She didn’t seem to want me around. She was always thinking about something else.”
“She was under a lot of pressure at work.”
“Did she tell you what kind of pressure? Did she show you what kind of things she was working on? Did you ask—”
“Damn it, Meri!” Dad’s fork slips from his hand with a clatter. “Of course I asked her about it and she told me she would explain everything when she had it all worked out. She was on edge and said she needed space and I didn’t push her. Maybe I should have. Maybe if I had insisted she tell me what she was working on instead of turning my back on her when she went out that night she’d still be alive. But I didn’t, and now I have to live with that for the rest of my life.”
He picks up his mostly full plate and takes it to the sink. Without turning, he says, “Your mother loved you, Meri. But the truth is I’m not sure if she still loved me. I have to live with that, too.” When he turns his eyes are clouded with pain and anger and the hollow hopelessness that I remember from the weeks immediately after my mother was killed. I have pushed him as far as I can. Any further and I’m not sure if he’ll ever forgive me.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say quietly.
He shakes his head and looks like he is going to say something else but changes his mind and sighs. “Leave the dishes. I’ll take care of them after I watch the game.”
Shoulders slumped, Dad goes into the living room. I run the water full blast, hoping he’ll hear it and come back to help clean the dishes. But he doesn’t. And I don’t go into the living room to keep him company the way I know I should. Instead I go upstairs and stand in front of my father’s closed bedroom door. He has a bottle hidden in there, and after the questions I have asked I know he’ll crack the seal on it tonight. This is my chance to search for the bottle. To keep him from drinking himself into oblivion. Because he will. After that conversation I know he will.
For one heartbeat, I wish I could, too, because I still don’t know if the mother I lost is the person I thought she was—or someone else entirely.
I don’t think I can sit here day after day waiting for something to happen. That is my only choice unless I take the option that was presented by the woman who waited for me across from the school. If I go tonight, I will have to be brave enough to face people who want to do this city, and maybe even me, harm. I’ll have to face learning the truth about my mother.
Am I that brave? Am I willing to walk down that path no matter where it might lead?
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. My stomach churns. My heart tightens as I make my choice.
I turn my back on my father’s room and the bottle hidden there. If my father drinks, he drinks. And if he passes out, he won’t be able to hear me slipping out of the house.
The minutes crawl. I change into a black T-shirt and jeans and pull my ratty green robe on top of them. Then I sit in the window seat and gnaw on the inside of my lip as I listen to the sound of my father coming up the stairs. He calls good night and waits for me to respond before closing his door. A half hour later, the weeping that always comes when he drinks too much too fast rings loud in my ears. I pull my knees up against my chest and try to block out the sound. Eyes closed tight, I bite my cheek and taste blood. Finally, after what feels like forever, the house goes mercifully quiet. The silence says Dad has fallen into oblivion. If I’m going to go, I need to move.
I walk by the window one more time in my bathrobe, giving anyone outside a good view of me. The car with the gold rims is gone, but a new silver one with tinted windows has parked in the same spot. Here’s hoping if someone is still watching the house they’ll think I’ve gone to bed when I turn out the light.
With careful, quiet steps, I slip out the back door and am grateful for whatever dog is barking as I gra
b my bicycle and wheel it to the alley behind the garage. Every crackle of gravel under my feet or snap of a twig makes me jump and look over my shoulder, certain someone is moving behind me. I feel both relieved and foolish when I reach the deserted alley without incident. Shaking my head at my unnecessarily dramatic exit, I climb onto my bike, adjust my backpack, and, before I talk myself out of going, ride.
After several blocks, I zigzag out of the alley. I pedal down the asphalt through scattered pools of streetlight, toward the skyscrapers with their windows shining bright against the dark sky. The number of cars dwindles as I ride, which tells me the midnight road-maintenance vehicle curfew is fast approaching. Unless there is an emergency, vehicles aren’t allowed on the roads between midnight and four. The curfew was first put into place as a step to curtail the high volume of crime, since the middle of the night was the time that behavior was most likely to occur. When that was successful, the ordinance was kept in place by the City Pride Program so they could use the time to repair streets and signs without interrupting traffic or daily life.
A few years ago, I stood with my mother as the head of her department gave a news conference about the success of the City Pride Program. He showed picture after picture of the roads before the curfew was put into place. The images of yawning black holes several feet deep, ever-lengthening cracks, and the perpetual traffic backups caused by the gaps and the feeble attempts at repairs made everyone agree that the late-night driving restriction was both necessary and effective.
Since it is currently summer and Friday night, the lack of cars means more pedestrians and carriages and bike riders are wandering the popular city streets around the La Salle Street Bridge when I arrive. I come to a stop before the bridge near a man sitting on a bucket playing a dull silver saxophone. The low notes color the air with melancholy as I look around for whoever it is I am supposed to meet.
There is no one who seems to be watching me, and no one I see strolling in the clear night looks dangerous. I take several deep breaths, secure my bike to an iron rack not far from the street musician, and start across the bridge. As I walk, I study every face that passes. Couples of various ages holding hands. A large group of men wearing blue-and-red baseball attire. Groups of three and four laughing and telling jokes and slapping high fives as they stroll to whatever their next destination might be.
Twelve thirty finds me standing in the center of one of the pedestrian walkways holding my breath. I turn in a circle, waiting for someone in a black sweatshirt to appear. Only no one comes.
Each minute feels longer than the last. Five minutes pass like an hour. The next ten are an eternity. The woman who sent me here is screwing with my mind. These people are just trying to hurt me, and I’m letting them. I should go home.
But I don’t. Not quite yet, because I can’t let go of the idea that my mother was hiding a huge truth about herself and this could be my only chance to learn it.
I jump at every voice. Still nothing. A girl in a flirty red dress and sparkling heels laughs with abandon as she comes my way. Her date calls for her to wait up as I turn and lean my forehead against the cold iron of the bridge to stare at the dark water below. It’s over, I tell myself. No one is coming, and I’m not sure if I’m angry or relieved.
“Excuse me, miss. What time is it?”
Turning, I see a boy a few years older than me in a black shirt and red tie standing several steps away. His face is cast in shadows by the brim of a black fedora. Behind him is the girl in the red dress, whose laugh has been replaced by an annoyed frown.
I glance at the time on my phone. “It’s twelve forty-nine.” It’s time for me to go home. I slide the phone into the front pocket of my bag and turn to go back to my bike.
“Are you certain?” the guy calls to me. “Or do you think I should ask another?”
“My phone says twelve forty-nine, but you can do whatever you want.” I glance at the guy in the black hat, who is now standing just a single step behind me with his head cocked to the side. The girl in the red dress has vanished.
“You really don’t know.” The whispered words brush the shadows. He removes his hat and I finally get a better look at his face. It’s one I recognize. The sharp-angled cheekbones, and deep-set dark eyes. I’ve drawn this face. He’s the one I followed from my mother’s building to this bridge just two days ago.
“Who are you?” I demand. “I was told to be here at twelve thirty. Are you the one who is supposed to meet me?”
He looks over his shoulder. I peer behind him, but neither of the people I can see in the distance appears to be looking this way.
“Answer me!” I snap. “Who are you?”
“I thought when you followed me here to the bridge that you knew.” He takes a step backward. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake.” He sets his hat low on his forehead and turns. “Go home.”
“Go home?” I shout. He doesn’t acknowledge me, so I chase after him to the edge of the bridge—back in the direction my mother’s paintings sent me yesterday.
“What do you mean this was a mistake? Hey! Stop!” I yell, and almost run right into him before I notice he actually followed my command.
For some reason that makes me even angrier. “Is this your idea of fun? Screwing with someone’s life? I basically encouraged my father to drink himself into a stupor tonight so I could get out of the house without any chance of him hearing me. I did that because I was told to come here by someone from your group—a group I was warned was dangerous by a person I have known all my life. You owe me answers!”
He removes his hat again and stares down at me for several long seconds before finally nodding. “Fine. Ask me one question. I’ll answer it as honestly as I can.”
One question? I have dozens of them. I should ask about my mother since she’s the reason I’m here. But what exactly do I ask?
I wrap my arms around myself to ward off the cold wind whipping from the river. “I’ve been told you’re part of a gang that is determined to undermine the city and harm the people in it and that ‘verify’ is a code word you use to create trouble.”
“Is there a question in there?”
“There would be if you waited for it to be asked,” I shoot back, wishing I were taller. I crane my neck upward to meet his eyes, which are shining bright against the charcoal blanket of night. “Is ‘verify’ a way of terrorizing people and causing trouble for the city? Or does it mean something more?”
“What do you think?”
I clench my fists at my sides. “If I knew the answer I wouldn’t have asked the question.”
“If you really thought your mother was associating with criminals would you have come to meet me?”
The mention of my mom steals my breath. I go over every single word I’ve said. I didn’t mention my mother. He did.
I swallow hard. “You said you’d give me an answer, not ask more questions.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking for the meaning of one word. Why is that so hard?”
He glances over his shoulder, again. Then he grabs my arm and pulls me deeper into the shadows where the lights on the bridge don’t quite reach. “Words have more power than you can imagine. Your mom understood that. They can give you strength, but they can also put you in danger. They can change your entire world. Do you really want that?” He shakes his head as I open my mouth to respond. “Don’t answer without thinking. Once you know something, you can’t unknow it. Because you’re young—”
“And you’re an old geezer?” I mock, yanking my arm from his grasp.
“You’re still in school,” he shoots back. “You want to finish, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Geezer. I do.”
“Then walk away now, Merriel, while you still can.” He runs his hand over his short-cropped hair and replaces his hat. “I can tell them you never showed up. They will never know any different, and you can forget that any of this ever happened. Life will go back to normal as long a
s you never tell anyone any of this happened.”
Normal? I don’t know who my mother really was. Nothing will ever have the chance to be normal again.
“And if I refuse?” I ask.
He meets my eyes with his own dark brown ones and I realize I didn’t get them right in my drawing. There is a fierce intensity shining from them that I failed to capture. It transforms every feature—makes it impossible to look away. “Then I guess we’re both going to have to live with the consequences.”
“I don’t understand—”
“You’ve got to the count of ten to decide.”
Before my mother died, I understood what I wanted. I knew what to expect from the world. I am not sure what “verify” means or what I am stepping into, but I know what waits on the path behind me. And I can’t go back. If I do, I will slowly lose my mind. The only way to stop feeling stuck in the unfinished moment is to follow the crusts of bread past the bridge to wherever they might lead.
My stomach twists. My heart is an unsteady drumbeat as I place my hand atop his warm fingers and in a voice more confident than I feel ask, “Do I get to know your name?”
For a second he just shakes his head at my hand in his. Then he smiles. “Don’t come whining to me if you regret this. Because chances are that you will.” He closes his fingers over mine. “You’re going to have to move fast if you plan on keeping up.”
He’s not joking. One second we are standing just beyond the bridge. The next I’m being yanked to a set of steps that leads down to an area right next to the river. I almost miss a step and have to let go of his hand to grab the rail. He doesn’t turn to help or slow his steps and I struggle to regain my balance before racing after him.
“My bicycle is on the other side of the bridge!” I yell. “I have to go back and get it.” My parents gave it to me three years ago for my birthday and it was my mother who picked out the color—the exact shade of the sun when it starts to set. I don’t want to lose it or the ability to get away quickly if I change my mind about Geeze here and wherever he’s leading me.
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