“If we go from here to that corner over there, it’s a little over a half mile. Then we could rest on the other side and come back.” All of this was based on advance research, obviously. Like she had committed a map of the lake to memory. She then produced from her pocket a small orange bag that was currently pressed flat. It took her less than a minute to inflate. “And we have this buoy for emergencies, in case you’re”—she winked at me—“worried. It is totally safe.”
She sounded so triumphant and looked so elated. I could tell that this was it, the moment that was to be the culmination of all our years of trips. The moment when her broken-winged little baby bird would, at long last, truly fly.
I probably should have been touched. Maybe even appreciative. But all of a sudden, all I felt was seriously pissed off.
“I’m not swimming in there,” I said again.
“Oh, come on, yes you are.” She waved me off like she had about so many things, so many times before. Already she was taking off the clothes she’d worn on top of her bathing suit and folding them on the dock. “You swam a mile to qualify as a CIT this summer. We’ll take a break in between. You can definitely get there and back, no problem.”
I felt the tug of my own bathing suit beneath my clothes, which I’d put on that morning at my mom’s suggestion without a second thought. “Just in case,” she had said, as if one could never be sure when a swimming-related emergency might crop up.
“No,” I said, crossing my arms. “I don’t want to.”
“Wylie, come on, you know that—”
“No!” I shouted, my heart beating hard. “I don’t actually have to do everything just to prove that I can. Other people get to choose the things they do. Why can’t I?”
Her lips parted then, like she was about to reply. But she took a breath. And her head tilted in that way it did when she was considering something intently. Finally, she nodded. “Okay,” she said quietly.
And that was what I wanted, right? For her to back down. So why did it feel so terrible now that she had?
“Okay?”
“You’re right,” she said. “There are lots of different ways to be brave. Including knowing who you are. I just want to be sure that it’s always you choosing what you want. And not your fear choosing for you.” She took a breath. “Okay?”
I felt a wave of unease. I didn’t want to swim in that water. I resented her trying to make me. But me not swimming wasn’t some casual, I-don’t-feel-like-it decision. It wasn’t really a choice at all.
“Are you disappointed?” I asked.
She walked forward and hugged me. “I couldn’t be more proud, Wylie. Always.”
I stood there on that dock as she dove into that icy water and watched as she kicked away from shore. And I believed she felt proud of me. The problem was I didn’t feel proud of myself.
She’d gone only about a dozen strokes when I stripped off my clothes, took a deep breath, and dove in after her.
THINKING OF THE cold water of Crater Lake works to cool me off, but only until the memory is gone. Within moments I am baking again. When I think I can’t stand the heat one more minute, I finally hear raised voices below.
I jump to my feet and head again to the edge of the roof. Sure enough, when I peer down the firefighters are climbing back into their trucks, tired but triumphant.
I have to go. Now. The fire is out, the emergency contained. And I don’t see anyone evacuating. Which means they have gone back inside. Any second the head count will begin. Soon they will realize that someone is gone. And they will come looking.
16
I FLY DOWN THE FIRST THREE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS, SLOWING ONLY WHEN I HEAR the voices from our floor begin to rise. One of the guards is shouting directions to the girls. I catch bits and pieces. “Find an available room.” “Transfer belongings.” The girls’ mumbling, grumbling. “Teresa?” someone asks. And then someone else replies. I can’t hear what they say. I don’t think I hear Kelsey’s voice either. I hope that means that she has somehow already managed to get herself out the door.
I slide quietly past our floor and race the rest of the way down, so fast that I trip on my stupid flip-flops a few times. But I am too scared to slow down.
And no one stops me, no voice calls out. Soon I am at the bottom of the steps. Right in front of the exit door. My hands tremble on the bar as I look at the sign—Emergency Exit Only. Alarm Will Sound. When the alarm goes off, they will know exactly where I am. They will come after me. And it will be broad daylight when I emerge. Not the best for a clean escape. Still, I have no choice. I take one last deep breath then push open the door.
There’s no sound, though. No alarm, at least not one I can hear. And that’s the last thing I think—no alarm—before I run.
The driveway is much longer than it looked from the roof. Longer and longer it seems, the faster I try to go. Soon my lungs are burning, my legs rubbery. But I keep my eyes locked on the city skyline ahead. There is only me and my breathing and the tall buildings in front of me. And I need to get there, to the crowds of Boston, where I can disappear.
Finally, the end of the hospital driveway is in sight. A stop sign and then the road, a main one—three lanes in each direction—that make the top of a T. Across the wide street is an office building next to some brick historic site, to the right a sandwich shop with people inside. That’s my best shot. I have no cash or ID. No phone. I am just going to have to hope that somebody buying lunch in there takes pity on me. But I’ll need a good story. A believable one that does not involve government quarantine or anyone chasing after me.
As soon as I step foot into the road there’s a screech, tires skidding on asphalt. I brace for impact that never comes. Instead the sound stops and when I open my eyes, red metal is all I can see.
The car door swings open. “Come on!” Jasper shouts, waving for me to get in his brother’s Jeep.
I rush forward and jump in. I barely have the door closed when he speeds away.
“Get down, get down. Stay out of sight.”
I scrunch low, head below the window, knees on the floor as the car lurches forward.
“Was there somebody else, maybe behind me?” I ask, panting and grateful.
Jasper looks up nervously in the rearview. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see anybody.”
His eyes lock on the road ahead. Like his plan is to drive as fast and as far as we can. And I am suddenly overwhelmed by panic.
“We have to go back,” I say.
“Go back? No way, not right now.” Jasper shakes his head. “You want to help the other girls, I know. But to ‘go back’ you got to leave first.”
“One of the other girls, Kelsey, she helped me get out,” I say, not mentioning the fire she might have started. “I think she was coming out right behind me.”
“You think?” Jasper asks. He sucks in a sharp breath. “It’s a huge risk to go back.”
I push myself up into the seat.
“Just a quick flyby. To make sure. I don’t want her to get grabbed because she’s waiting for me.”
“Seriously?” Jasper whispers. He already knows he’s going to do what I want—he just can’t believe it.
“Seriously.” I watch the side of his face. “And thank you for going back, for coming in the first place.”
Jasper takes a deep breath, shaking his head as he switches on his turn signal. “One quick pass and then we’re gone.”
WE ARE ABLE to pull into the lot on the opposite side of the hospital and park some distance away. We have a decent view of the Ebola wing, but are pretty well hidden. Jasper leaves the car running.
“What does she look like?” he asks.
“She’s shorter than me with long, dark, curly hair. And she’ll be in a gray sweat suit.” I pull at mine. “Like this one.”
“Okay,” Jasper says, eyeing the side of the hospital. “And you think she’d just be hanging out in the open?”
“I hope not, but I want to be sure,” I say, t
hen try to change the subject. To buy myself some time. “Did you go to my house? Any sign of my dad?”
My stomach twists when Jasper looks down. He’s been dreading this conversation. Now, so am I.
“Jasper, what is it?”
“He wasn’t there.” He brightens a little as he digs out his cell phone and hands it to me. “But there were thunderstorms last night. Maybe his plane couldn’t land. He’s probably still stuck in the airport in DC.”
“He would have called,” I say.
“How?”
“They let other people get calls,” I say, thinking of Teresa’s conversation with her pastor. “People that weren’t even parents.”
“Were they people who are scientists studying this whole thing?” Jasper asks. “Try him again.”
He’s right, of course. Because Dr. Haddox may not know who I am, but somebody surely does.
I dial my dad’s number again. I am so relieved when it doesn’t go straight to voice mail. But when someone finally answers, it’s a young woman. I pull it away from my face, hoping that I’ve dialed the wrong number. I haven’t.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hello?” she snaps back, much louder this time.
“Who is this?” My heart is drumming inside my rib cage. “Why do you have my dad’s phone?”
“Well, that was awful accusatory,” she says, and with an edge that makes me think I am exactly right to be accusing her. “I’m trying to be a Good Samaritan. And you’re coming at me like I’ve done something. How about a thank you? You know what? Maybe I’ll hang up now.”
“Wait!” I shout. “Please don’t hang up. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—but this is my dad’s phone, and I can’t find him. Um, why do you have it?”
“I found it,” she says, like that’s obvious. “Probably he was doing his shopping, and it fell out of his pocket. It happens all the time to my boyfriend. I’m always telling him he needs a man purse, and he’s like screw you, I am not carrying a purse. But I told him: You want to lose your damn phone?” She takes a breath like she’s forgotten who she’s talking to or what about. “Anyway, you can’t carry your phone in your hand while you’re shopping in a big marketplace like this. Too many distractions. You’re always going to end up setting it down.”
“What marketplace?”
“Eastern Market,” she says, like that also ought to be obvious.
“Where’s that?” My hand is trembling. And I want to scream at her. Demand that she explain everything to me, immediately. But she’s already almost hung up on me once. I need to stay calm. Be patient. “I’m calling from Boston. I don’t know an Eastern Market.”
“Boston?” She laughs. “Well, we’re in D.C., right near Capitol Hill. I’ll tell you what. Because you’re so far away, why don’t you PayPal me some money for shipping, and, you know, to cover my inconvenience, and I’ll send it right back to you today.”
I hang up once she’s texted me her contact information. A name and a P.O. box that could belong to anybody. Part of me doesn’t even want the phone back, like having it in my possession guarantees my dad isn’t going to reappear with an explanation for all of this.
“What is it?” Jasper asks when I hang up.
“Somebody found my dad’s phone in DC in some random market in the center of the city. Last time I talked to him, he was in the airport. He said he was going to turn around and be on the next flight home. Why is his phone not in the airport?”
“Okay.” Jasper is trying not to seem freaked out. It would be more convincing if I couldn’t read him so easily. “Maybe he got delayed and didn’t feel like waiting in the airport. Or somebody could have stolen his phone and brought it to that random place. Just because the phone is there doesn’t mean that he ever was.”
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard in a mostly useless attempt not to cry. I turn toward the window when my eyes start to burn. “What did Gideon say when you went to the house?”
Jasper closes his eyes. Again, I feel his dread rise. This is what he doesn’t want to talk about. The house.
“Gideon wasn’t there. No one was,” he says. Jasper looks down at his hands. “But the door to your house was kind of open a little. I could see that before I got out of the car. And so I went in. Your house is kind of messed up.”
“What does that mean?”
When Jasper turns to look at me, there’s no mistaking just how bad he feels for me. “Actually, your place was totally trashed, Wylie. Drawers pulled out, papers all over the place. A front window was smashed.”
“What?” Panic floods my stomach, making me nauseous. “Why?”
“From the mess, I’d say they were looking for something.”
I wrap my arms around my waist and squeeze, but I shudder hard anyway. “And there was no sign of Gideon at all?”
“For what it’s worth, there wasn’t any sign that anything bad had happened to Gideon either,” Jasper says, and this thought honestly reassures him. “I checked and there wasn’t like blood or a shoe left behind or anything.”
My eyes are wide. Jasper squeezes his eyes shut. He knows he has said the exact wrong thing.
“Oh, my God.” I dial Gideon’s number, pressing a hand to my mouth.
Gideon answers on the first ring. “Yep?”
“Gideon, it’s Wylie. Are you okay?”
“Um, yeah,” he says, all attitude. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Have you talked to Dad?”
“Shhh. Why are you screaming?” he shouts back. “Stop yelling or I am going to hang up on you.”
“I’m not yelling,” I say, though I can hear myself—I am totally yelling. “When did you last talk to Dad?”
“I don’t know,” Gideon say, distracted. I probably caught him in the middle of playing a video game. I can almost hear the clicking of the controller. “Like yesterday, I think.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know. He was on the way to the airport.”
My heart sinks. I spoke to him after that. Gideon probably won’t know anything I don’t. But I try not to lose hope.
“What did he say?”
“The same stupid shit that he’s been saying—oh, I’m so sorry. I love you both the same.” His tone is nasty. Mocking. “Blah, blah. It’s all bullshit. And I told him he could go to hell. I’m going to stay away for a while, too. Once I’m gone, we can see how much he cares,” Gideon says. He sounds so pleased with himself.
“Where are you, Gideon?” I ask.
“Staying with a friend,” he says.
“What friend?” My voice is rising. “This is serious. I don’t know where Dad is, Gideon.”
“Well, why don’t you see if you can feel your way to him?” he says viciously.
“Gideon, tell me where you are.” Though it’s not as if there are that many options. He only has a couple of friends. “Stephen’s?”
“Well, if you need to ask, maybe you’re not so gifted after all.”
“Gideon, this isn’t a joke. I’m—” But he’s already hung up. “Asshole,” I whisper.
“At least he’s okay,” Jasper offers as I start Googling. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to find the office number for my mom’s friend Rachel.” It takes a few tries before I find her—Rachel O’Callahan. A second later, I am dialing. “My dad said he was calling her. Maybe she knows something.”
I get her voice mail. “Rachel, it’s Wylie. I need to talk to you right away. I can’t find my dad. Call me back,” and at the last second I remember to leave Jasper’s number.
I squeeze Jasper’s phone tight after I hang up. The police. I know I need to call them, too. As a possible semi-fugitive, I don’t love this idea. If it was legal that they were holding us—like Dr. Haddox said—that would probably make it illegal for me to leave.
The call with the police doesn’t last long. They aren’t interested in my dad as a supposed missing person. It’s like with Cassie, only worse: they are all about why they c
an’t do much to find a person who’s vanished. They take down his name and a description and the few details about his travel I know. The only part they perk up about is his phone. That’s when they start asking about me. Demanding to know who I am and where I am calling from. I hang up when they ask for my number and location. I never even get to telling them that someone also broke into our house.
After that, Jasper and I sit in silence. We have a good view of the building and even some of the exits. We’ve been there going on ten minutes. There’s still no sign of Kelsey.
“You’re sure you didn’t see anybody running after me?” I could have sworn there was. And maybe they grabbed Kelsey—that’s what I’m thinking. “When I came out?”
“I don’t think so,” Jasper says.
That should be good news—except it doesn’t feel like it.
“Kind of weird, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Every part of this is weird, Wylie.”
“But I mean, the fire door said it had an alarm. I didn’t hear it, so it must be one of those silent ones. For sure, they’d know someone had opened it. After all the secrecy, I run out and no one even bothers to come after me?”
“Maybe they were too busy dealing with the actual fire alarm, which was seriously loud, by the way. I could hear it from the road. Maybe they didn’t even hear the door alarm,” he says. “Or maybe they couldn’t chase you once you got outside. It would draw too much attention.”
Even with Jasper’s eyes still locked on the side of the building, I can feel something awful has occurred to him.
“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s just . . .” He looks down at the steering wheel, traces a right half circle with his finger. “There’s nothing on the news about this. And I mean like nothing at all. I checked online, and there’s not a word anywhere. Wouldn’t somebody have said something to someone?”
It doesn’t make me feel better, but it’s also not a surprise. Uncomfortable silence is a thing I have become accustomed to. “I don’t know. What happened at that camp was a nonevent and thirteen people died. I’m not sure I understand anything anymore.”
The Scattering Page 14