Mercy

by Rhiannon Paille

  “What am I?”

  “You’re a girl.”

  “You know that isn’t true.” Skepticism coiled her mind, telling her none of this was real, purely part of her imagination but she couldn’t let it go. He knew something about her, he had always known, even before he got there. She was the reason he showed up in Kenora in the first place. It had nothing to do with his uncle building a resort—it was all so he could get to her before they did. Only she didn’t have any clue who they were and it was starting to sound crazier the longer she contemplated it.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Because of some assassin’s code?” she hissed, locking her eyes to his.

  She noticed a jaw muscle tick as he looked at her with sad eyes. “Because you won’t believe me.”

  She crossed her legs and held her arms against her chest. She thought for a long time. Unfortunately, her only frames of reference were the books and movies she’d watched. She’d never had a paranormal experience in her life. Steph watched all those ghost hunting shows on A&E, and all through grade ten wanted to explore different fields and abandoned houses. They never found a single thing. The only time Maeva felt … something different … was in the forest and in her canoe, on days when fog covered the lake and floated overtop worn down trails. She racked her brain for different types of beings she’d read about and glanced up.

  “Am I fallen angel?” Michael pulled a face and she instantly knew she was wrong and that the idea of angels made him uncomfortable. “I read about them,” she mumbled, trying to cover up her mistake.

  “You have to remember it on your own,” he began, his syllables over pronounced, even with the accent. “You can’t believe people blindly. Anyone can tell you you’re a mermaid but that doesn’t make it true.”

  Maeva twisted her hands, feeling humiliated and stupid. “Is there anything you can tell me?”

  He brightened. “There’s no one like you.”

  That didn’t help. “So I’m otherkin?”

  “No.”

  “But I’m not human?”

  “Yes.”

  Maeva bit her lip and frowned, pulling her lips to one side, deep in thought. That didn’t actually explain anything, but he was dead serious. There had to be something she wasn’t factoring in, but she didn’t know what it was. “What are you?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh and stood, unwilling to beat it out of him anymore. She had to go home for a horrible fight with her mom. He wasn’t going to tell her anything anyway, so there was no point in staying. He was alive, that was what mattered. She moved to the door, backpack slung on her shoulder, and whirled.

  “I don’t think its fair you know everything and I know nothing,” she fired at him, turning; fingers on the doorknob.

  “Maeva …” he choked.

  She looked over her shoulder, his expression was so lethal it could cut right through her. Everything she found dangerous about him came crashing back to the surface and she kicked herself forever being nice to him. “What?” she barked.

  He had his hands palms up on the blanket, his expression melting into melancholy. “I’m a Wraith.”

  She frowned, not knowing what a Wraith was and opened the door. “I’ll see you at school.” She slipped out of the room and padded down the hall in her heavy boots. She was trembling and hungry by the time she got to her car and drove away, hitting the overnight drive-thru on her way home.

  She sat in the car for a long time savoring the heat, finishing her drink and staring at the clock. It was two twenty two in the morning. She didn’t want to walk across the lake alone, but the idea of talking Korowicz into escorting her made her skin crawl. She took a final sip of root beer and got out, winds howling in the dead of night. A street lamp lit up the harbor until she passed the docks and walked across the frozen ice.

  She hugged her arms to her chest, her stomach a muddle of knots, her breath coming in short shallow gasps as she thought about what they might be. She wasn’t human. That was the only thing Michael was willing to tell her that made any sense. But she wasn’t an angel, vampire, or werewolf either. She wasn’t otherkin, and maybe he said it to mess with her. She couldn’t tell with him anymore, it was like she was lost in this horrible tangle of weeds and couldn’t free herself from it. She spotted the porch light in the distance and began running, her only certainty being the ice below her was at least three feet thick and she wouldn’t break through it and plunge to her watery death.

  She slowed when she hit the evergreen on the edge of the island and crossed the back yard. She didn’t bother being quiet, the kitchen light was on. She already imagined Grace sitting at the table with a cup of coffee between her hands, an ashtray full of cigarette butts, the rest of the pack beside it. She pushed the door open and Grace looked up from the exact spot Maeva thought she’d be sitting at.

  Grace looked livid.

  Maeva kept her face dead pan as she removed her boots, trying not to let the familiar fear wear her down. She moved across the floor, trying to give Grace the impression she didn’t want to fight.

  “Where the hell were you?” Grace snapped.

  Maeva stopped in her tracks, and something inside of her cracked. “At the hospital—because I’m not a liar, a slut, or a fuck up! I almost lost someone really important to me tonight, and unlike you, I’m not a heartless bitch. I stayed to make sure he was okay.”

  She clamored down the steps, already crying before Grace said anything, slamming the basement door and her bedroom door, locking it. Grace seemed shocked, appalled, and offended all at the same time but Maeva didn’t care anymore. She was so sick and tired of pretending, pretending she belonged, pretending she was normal, pretending she was nothing, pretending she didn’t feel anything for Michael. He was the only thing that made sense anymore. She crawled into bed and nightmares covered her in icy darkness.

  ***

  Chapter 23

  Hollow Broken Hearts

  The land became a whorl of snow and ice, trapping Maeva for three days straight. She tiptoed upstairs, finding Scott and Gord staring at the flat screen in the living room. Doppler Radar showed a mass of green swirls, punctuated with patches of yellow and red. It was too hazardous to go outside, temperatures falling to forty below with the wind chill. Maeva grabbed a can of coke out of the fridge and retreated to her bedroom before either of them noticed and threw on her headphones to drown out the quiet. She clicked on her playlist and grabbed a book, refusing to leave the basement unless she was hungry.

  She read through the good parts of one of her favorites, crunching her knees to her chest when the male lead crashed his car. She hugged the book to her chest and thought about Michael in the hospital. He looked so different, grayish sallow skin, bloodshot distant eyes, cracked colorless lips. She didn’t understand the hole in her heart, and why she couldn’t stop crying whenever she thought about him. Her chest seized and a lump formed in her throat and tears fell on her pillow and she couldn’t stop it. She cried until she fell asleep and half the day went by. She sat and leaned her back against the wall, knees up, both hands on her phone. Rob sent a couple of texts but she ignored him. Steph asked if she had notes from their Applied Math class, and she responded, saying she didn’t have computer access. No doubt Scott was taking up all the time. Even if she went upstairs she’d only get an hour and she didn’t like the idea of being in the same room with Grace.

  The blizzard lasted two more days. It got so bad the back door had a snowdrift in front of it. She hunched over a bowl of cereal while Gord opened the door, an icy gust trailing over her feet. She tried to tuck them under her chair to shield them but it was everywhere, billowing across the kitchen floor like a poisonous fog. She glanced outside at the four-foot wall of snow and caught her dad’s mangled expression. He had his shin high thick winter boots on, his jacket, toque, and elbow length industrial mittens. Looking ready to sumo wrestle a snowman, he crossed the kitchen and slid of
f one of the big mittens to open the basement door. The stairs protested in a series of creaks as he went down and came back with a big metal shovel. Maeva blinked, dunking her spoon in the cereal as he cut through the snow, carving a path through the backyard. She scooped up the last of the tasteless flakes and put her bowl in the sink, avoiding Scott as he bent over the fridge. She rounded the table, glancing out the door at uneven waves of snow in the backyard. Gord had gotten past the porch and was working his way towards the dock, but it didn’t matter where he went, the snow was no less than two feet high, and in some areas, as high as five feet.

  By Saturday, the skies were a clear azure blue. Everyone missed three days of school, bringing exams much closer. She bent over her binder, rereading notes, determined not to fail. Her phone buzzed and she ignored it for a while, not caring that Steph was bored at work. She only talked to Maeva when she didn’t have anyone else to talk to, or when her problems seemed so big she needed to tell more than one person.

  Maeva flipped another page, pissed that Steph thought her problems were important. Most of them involved whether or not she should flirt with guys at work or what to wear the next time she saw Tait. Yesterday she asked what to buy from Silk, Satin and Lace, unsure if she should go for a baby doll or a bra and panty set with matching stockings. Maeva didn’t answer.

  The iPod on her phone began playing a song she didn’t like and she clicked the face to change the song, noticing a text from a number she didn’t recognize.

  “Can you come over?”

  She frowned, not really sure who else would be texting her, or how they got her number in the first place. It wasn’t something she gave out.

  “Who is this?” She typed in, hitting send. She scrolled through her other texts, noticing something new from Steph.

  “Mekelle.”

  Maeva pulled herself up, ramrod straight, heart galloping. She hadn’t been able to call him, and the one time she called the hospital they reminded her she wasn’t family. They couldn’t tell her anything about his condition or whether he went home yet. She thought about the blizzard. Her dad had figured out how to get out and went to the factory. Scott took off to practice at the outdoor Arena. Her mom was home, but they weren’t on speaking terms.

  “Where are you?”

  “Bedridden.”

  “Home or hospital?”

  “Home.”

  She took a deep breath and tried not to think about the fact he’d invited her over and was segregated to his bed. She glanced at her door and the pile of work around her, contemplating the wrath of the dragon lady upstairs. She quickly cleaned up the mess and zipped her binder up.

  “Give me an hour.”

  She tossed the phone on her bed and changed out of her gray sweats into her favorite pair of skinny jeans, threading a rhinestone belt through the loops. She chose a blue tank with two white stick figures on it, a boy and a girl, holding their hollow broken hearts out to each other. She threw on a bit of makeup, enough to make it seem like her face wasn’t splotchy and her eyes didn’t have bags under them.

  She lingered at the bottom of the stairs trying to get the courage to go upstairs. She couldn’t run out of the house in her socks, and all her stuff was by the back door. She steeled herself, climbed the stairs, crossed the kitchen and put on her boots.

  “If I said you were grounded would you listen to me?”

  Maeva looked up. Grace leaned against the wall between the living room and the kitchen in her flower print pajamas, hair frizzed up in every direction. Her brown eyes were different, angry but overcome. Maeva tightened the laces.

  “No,” she said, pulling on her jacket. She felt her pulse in her palms and hoped Grace wouldn’t interrogate her. She managed to get her scarf and mittens on without Grace saying anything. She pulled open the door, a frigid blast of air stinging her cheeks.

  “Drive carefully,” Grace said as she hurried down the carved out walkway and into the whipping winds on the lake. It was worse than she thought. The subzero temperatures made her legs sting before she was halfway to the harbor. She ignored the pain and pressed on, cresting snow dunes and sliding across bare patches of ice. She hit the shore and pulled herself up another snow ridge, punctured with deep footprints.

  The Sundance was concealed under a snowbank, nothing but the roof and part of the trunk showing. She groaned, already frozen to the bone and pulled her keys out of her pocket. She brushed the snow off the trunk with her sleeve and managed to get it open. She handled the ignition cylinder and begged the Sundance to start. The engine turned over, coughing and sputtering a bit as it roared to life. She gave it a little gas and patted the steering wheel.

  “Come on, you’re the little car that could,” she whispered, cranking the stiff steering wheel back and forth. She cranked the heat, huddling in the Sundance for warmth before finishing. Clumps of snow fell into the trunk as she grabbed the scraper. She swept the rest of the snow off the tires and hood, cleared the handles and windows enough to see something. She was smart enough to plug it in but it was ancient and the forecast had the mercury at an outrageous minus forty-two.

  The thought of getting out of the house for anything was awesome; and seeing Michael made a trill of excitement wash through her. She reminded herself why he wasn’t sexy, and why she shouldn’t feel anything for him.

  She waited a full fifteen minutes before pulling out of the lot and treading carefully down unplowed roads. She thoroughly appreciated the brand new winter tires her dad had installed. The Seventeen wasn’t much better, thick ruts painted the roads and the Sundance had to ride in them, swerving and dipping when the ruts forced her to. She narrowly stopped at a red light, her body contorted in worry. One patch of ice and she could careen into another car, a traffic light, a pedestrian, a fence. She rolled down Second, passing Red Boot at thirty kilometers, and carefully pulled into the only stall unobstructed by snow.

  “Outside. How do I get in?” She texted, the cold seeping in through the doors and making her breath come out in little clouds.

  “Shit. Downstairs is so far away,” Michael responded.

  “Sorry.” She stared at the glass door, thinking about what he’d said earlier about being bedridden. She’d never seen him so weak, so vulnerable. He appeared in front of the door in a pair of black cargo pants and a long sleeve black sweater. She could barely see him through the glass but he didn’t look good. He pressed his palm against the glass as he unlocked the door and disappeared, not waiting for her.

  Maeva scooted out of the Sundance and grabbed her backpack, following him upstairs. She dropped her bag by the door as he collapsed on the couch. The flat was dismal, nothing but streams of sunlight through windows. It made it bright in some spots and hazy in others. The television was on, the volume tuned to a whisper. Maeva rubbed her sleeves together as she removed her sweater, tension coiling her muscles into tight springs.

  “I thought you said bedridden.” She smirked as she neared the couch, Michael lying across the length of it.

  He shot her a rueful smile. “Trying to get me into bed, aye?”

  She hugged her arms to her chest, a blush creeping into her cheeks. She stared at the hardwood floor. “Why did you want me?” She tried to seem nonchalant, but it was impossible. Her stomach was a sea of maelstroms. She gulped, sitting on the arm of the beige sofa chair.

  He looked at her with dull blue eyes, his head propped up by a couple of pillows. By bedridden he obviously meant couch ridden. “Come again?” Mischief skirted his irises, his accent thick. Maeva averted her gaze, blush deepening.

  “Why am I here?” She wanted to be out of the house, but she had no idea why he wanted her around. She handed in the photography assignment, using the pictures she’d taken of him in the dark and the couple he’d taken of her when she wasn’t watching. She’d rather take the low grade than tell Mr. Weir about the night at the hospital. Her throat constricted when she thought about Michael attached to the IV, unconscious, sleeping away pain. She couldn
’t believe how well he’d been able to hide it from her, from everyone for this long.

  “Tom is out all day. I’m alone and …” His eyes pleaded with her to understand the rest. He didn’t look like the type of boy that liked it when people had to take care of him. He closed himself off from everyone. Other than Maeva, Tom, and the nurses at Lake of the Woods General, nobody knew he was sick.

  “Oh … yeah of course,” she said, shooting him a sympathetic smile. For once she didn’t have to worry about awkward conversations and her impending doom when she was with him. She relaxed. He had a scar on his forehead from when he crashed his car. His hands were clasped to his chest, head tilted, watching the screen. She caught herself tracing the contours of his neck and collarbone and stopped herself. He didn’t like her; he had a job to do. He crunched his knees at angles, scrunching the pockets on the cargo pants. She followed his gaze to the screen, headlines scrolling across the bottom, two reporters conversing onscreen.

  She couldn’t watch the news. It was probably the most boring thing on the planet. She glanced at the coffee table, an empty mug resting near him. She frowned at the two windows on either side of the flat screen, sun slanting into the room, glinting off dust motes. She wandered over, seeing if there was a blind she could pull. She fiddled with a series of strings and a plastic sheaf came down over the window, casting them in darkness.

  She turned, expecting his eyes on the screen but his dull sapphire eyes were glued to her, unabashedly staring at her shirt. Her pulse quickened as she dropped her gaze, tugged her shirt over her belt, and padded across the floor to her backpack. She had almost forgotten about the stick figures and the broken hearts on her tank top. She pulled out the newest book she owned and settled in the sofa chair, her feet on the coffee table. She opened the book to where she’d last dog-eared it. He coughed.