Pushing forward, she lost all sense of direction. Somewhere to her right the talking rooster shouted his frustration and, farther away, Canton called out orders for them to split up and search the area, his voice warbling in the thick air.
When she figured she was close to the middle of the quicksilver field, she eased down to a sitting position, crossed her legs, and gently laid the bag on her lap. The fog shrouded her, wetting her cheeks and hair with fine droplets. She slowed her breathing, trying to calm her racing mind and heart. The most important thing she’d learned from playing Seekers was that, to avoid capture, she needed to be calm. Over the years, she’d become really good at it, and she was rarely flushed out of hiding.
As she’d hoped, the boys proved inherently lazy. From what she could hear, they’d each chosen an easier job like searching the forest or the marsh grass along the river. Each of them was probably hoping someone else would take the Foil, as whoever did would come away with clothing that was soaked and tattered. She was learning that lesson first-hand, and was just hoping she could buy Sara enough time to return with Leigh. Maybe he’d bring some of his baseball buddies. Or his bat.
A giggle burbled up her throat, and she refocused on her breathing. In and out, in and out. As the minutes ticked by, she had more and more trouble staying calm. She was all too aware that this particular game of Seekers would have dire consequences if she lost. She did a few neck rolls to release some tension.
“Hey! Do you see that?” Steve Ryder said.
His voice was startlingly close, and she jumped. The bottles clanked, making her cringe. Had he spotted her? Frantically, she scanned her surroundings. She couldn’t see three feet beyond her nose, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t see her.
“Oh, shit!” came the reply, in a voice that was slow and slightly slurred. This must have been Slothboy. She’d never heard him speak before today.
“Dude, let’s get out of here,” Steve said. He sounded scared.
“We’re not carrying anymore. Can’t we just hang around and find out what they’re doing? It looks like they’re dragging the pond.”
“Hell, no,” Steve said. “Get within ten feet and they’ll know you’re baked.”
“Shouldn’t we at least warn the other guys?” Slothboy said.
“I’m not going to jail. They’re on their own.”
“Wait!” Slothboy said, but from the sound of it they were moving away.
Their departure did nothing to calm her nerves. In fact, it did quite the opposite. Were there really cops nearby? And if Slothboy was right, what were they looking for at the bottom of the pond? She could take a guess, and the idea sent her into a swooning panic.
She dumped the bag from her lap and crawled downhill, hoping she was heading in the right direction. She needed to take a closer look. If the police were really dragging the pond, she had to somehow find Leigh before he stumbled on to the scene. Not for a moment did it cross her mind that Sara would do anything other than run for her brother’s help — or that Leigh would do anything other than pounce into immediate action when he heard she was in trouble. During the fleeting breaths of her childhood, some things were just a given.
Pausing to get her bearings, she heard the low rumble of machinery and some kind of flapping noise. She heard voices, too — adult voices. On hands and knees, she eased to the edge of the quicksilver and found a spot where she was well hidden but could see the pond below. The sun burned through the fog in patches now, and the pond sparkled blue and gold.
There were, indeed, police officers. Several wore diving gear. A tent had been set up near the pond’s edge, and one corner had slipped from its peg to flap in the wind. The ground steamed, wisps rising toward the promise of blue sky above. Officers milled around with straight-backed authority.
She was too late to save Leigh. He rushed out of the fog and forest, baseball bat held aloft, and skidded to a cartoonlike stop. It would have been funny under other circumstances. Several officers sprang into action, reaching for their gun belts, but Leigh quickly dropped the bat and raised his hands in the air.
Moments later, Sara stumbled out of the forest behind him. She was red-faced and drenched in sweat, and now she was the one who looked like she was going to puke. One of the officers beckoned them forward. With reluctance, Leigh and Sara complied.
“Oh damn.” Eve chewed on her fingers.
She couldn’t hear the conversation that followed, but Sara did most of the talking. She seemed to recover her breath quickly, and waved her arms with animation while she spoke. Eve guessed she was giving a hastily modified version of their morning adventure, pegging them as the victims of four horrendous bullies. Sara pointed at Leigh, likely explaining how she’d sought her brother’s help.
Not for the first time, she felt grateful for Sara’s quick tongue and even quicker mind. The officer relaxed into attentiveness as Sara spoke, and she almost smiled at her friend’s calm prowess. But one look at Leigh struck the smile from her face.
He stood beside his sister, looking stunned and pale. His gaze kept roving guiltily from the officer, to the divers in the pond, to a spot near where she was hidden. Backing up a bit, she wondered if Leigh had spotted her. But no, his gaze slipped blankly past her. As the conversation continued, he looked at the Foil with increasing frequency. Then he seemed to recognize what he was doing. He abruptly turned his back, facing the river instead. His shoulders pulled up to his ears.
His body language told her everything she’d never wanted to know. Her gorge rose with horror. She looked back the way she’d come, and then slammed her arm across her mouth and nose, gagging. She’d been too focused on finding a view of the pond to notice the scatter of clothing and bones she’d just crawled through.
As it turned out, it was Eve who puked that day.
ELEVEN
“WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR BEARD?” she asked when Leigh squeezed through the door. He carried a takeout bag and wore a nervous grin. His cheeks looked raw and baby-fresh.
“You didn’t like it.” He placed the bag on the edge of the bed. “I brought Thai food.”
“I didn’t tell you I didn’t like it!” She pressed the button to lift her bed into a seated position. “Did I?”
“You wish I hadn’t shaved, then?”
“Well …”
Opening the bag, which smelled heavenly, he pulled out white Styrofoam containers.
“Coconut curry soup?” he said.
“That’s my favourite.”
“I also got lemongrass chicken, pad Thai, spring rolls, and mixed vegetables. Got to eat your greens. And if you’re really good, I brought you something for dessert.”
“Delicious. Thank you.”
She took the bowl of soup and watched him make up a plate for each of them. “Have you been bringing me food a lot? It’s not necessary.”
“Your tongue would have died of boredom. I consider it my medical duty.” He laid her plate on the swing-out table and placed a fork and napkin beside it.
“How long have I been here?”
“Too long,” he said. “But you’ve had good news, I hear?”
“Oh?” She lost interest in her soup, which was creamy and had just the right amount of heat. It caused her upper lip and forehead to bead with sweat.
His forehead beaded with sweat, too, although he hadn’t yet touched his soup. “You had a meeting this morning. With the doctors and your grandmother.”
She continued to look at him, spoon held aloft.
“They think you’re ready to go home. You’ll have daily home care, of course.”
“For real?”
“You’ve made amazing strides. You were as close to dead as anyone I’ve ever seen, and yet here you are.”
“Here I am,” she said, feeling the flames of anxiety lick at her skin. “Alive and … well, not well, but …” She paused. “I guess I’ll take ‘alive.’”
“Me, too. And you are well. You forget how much progress you’ve made.”<
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“I forget a lot of things.” She pushed at the soup with her spoon. Her appetite was waning.
“Eve, it’s —”
“Normal. But I only remember you.”
He paused with a forkful of broccoli halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”
“I only remember you. And Button, a little bit. But I don’t remember any of the nurses, or other doctors, or that psychiatrist you’ve told me about —”
“Dr. Jeffries.”
“Right, him —”
“Her.”
“What?”
“Dr. Jeffries is a woman.”
She flopped back against her pillow, food forgotten. “See? That’s my point. How long have I been in this hospital?”
“You’re not in the hospital.” Leigh’s voice was so quiet she could barely hear him.
“What?”
“You’re in a rehab facility. And you’ve been here for six months.”
“No.” She looked toward the window, where she had watched the passing of the seasons. But it was no longer to her left. The sink had moved, too. It had been to the right of the door, and there had been an arrangement of flowers on the counter beside it. Now there was a mirrored closet and the door to what she guessed was the bathroom.
“Every day you have physical therapy with Gladys or James. Susan takes you sometimes, but you don’t like her as much. You think she’s bossy.”
She shook her head, at a loss for words.
“And Dr. Jeffries works with you, too. Three times a week.”
“Leigh …”
“I come to visit most evenings. And your grandmother is here every morning. She has breakfast with you. Do you remember that?”
She hadn’t until he said it. But with the reminder, a few memories surfaced: Button toddling forward with steps so quick she looked like she was riding a conveyor belt, or tsking at Eve’s forgetfulness, or berating the nurses about a cut on Eve’s leg that wasn’t healing, or dunking her tea bag into a steaming mug while complaining that they only had Lipton’s.
“Of course I remember.”
She pulled the plate of food closer and took a bite of the chicken. Normal people ate dinner, and she was determined to be normal.
“Next week. You’ll be home by the end of next week. With your grandma, and your art studio. Maybe you can start painting again?”
“Maybe.”
“Have you been drawing? I brought you that sketchpad and some chalk —”
“Charcoal,” she said, looking to where Leigh pointed. “No, I haven’t been drawing.”
Ignoring her, he flipped open the sketchpad. “This is different.” His voice sounded thick in his throat.
“What is?”
He brought the sketchpad to her. “This isn’t your usual style. Well, not like the stuff I’ve seen, anyway. I guess that’s to be expected.”
“Let me see.” She reached for the sketchbook. Leigh pulled it into his chest, his brow creased with worry.
“What? Does it suck?” she tried to joke.
When he flipped the sketchpad open on his lap, she gasped. He was right. It was very different from her usual loose, colour-filled style. The drawing was done with thick, precise strokes, full of shadows. From the white page a man reached for her, pleaded with her, beckoned to her.
A memory arose from the swamp of her mind.
The storm had been raging. Rain sprayed from the tires of passing cars, pooled around leaf-clogged gutters, and pounded the canvas awning above her like a drumbeat calling her home.
“Take my hand, Eve.”
Water dripped from the brim of his fedora and his eyes were the colour of fine amber, just like hers.
When he reached for her, she saw that his ring finger was missing from knuckle to tip. This had sparked a jolt of recognition that she hadn’t, at the time, been able to process.
But now she could. It had to do with her favourite bedtime story. Night after night she’d said no to “Cinderella,” no to “Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” no to “Hansel and Gretel.” She’d beg Button to tell her, once again, about the Polish printer and his hungry printing press. It was a true story, a family tale turned legend, and that made it all the more delicious.
As the story went, the printer had been in business a couple of years when he bought a new top-of-the-line printing press. All was well until the day he pinched his skin while closing the press. It wasn’t a bad injury, and only one page was ruined by a smear of blood.
But that taste of the printer’s flesh seemed to awaken a hunger in the new press. Accidents happened so frequently that the printer came home every day with new cuts and bruises. His wife begged him to sell the press. It was clearly bringing him bad luck, and someone in Rozopol had expressed an interest in buying it. He scoffed at his wife, told her he would not be swayed by superstition.
But he changed his mind the day the press ate his finger.
After the accident, he sold it to the printer in Rozopol, grateful that he’d lost a finger and not his life. Or so he thought until the infection set in.
His widow received the money from the sale the day after his funeral. Three weeks later, the Nazis froze all Jewish bank accounts, and that money was lost. Two weeks after that, the widow realized she was pregnant.
Their daughter was born inside the walls of the Warsaw Ghetto. The widow named the baby Batya, “daughter of God.” Many years later, Batya would have a granddaughter who couldn’t pronounce her name properly, and instead would call her Button.
“Close the sketchbook,” Eve said.
One eyebrow rose questioningly, but Leigh did as she asked. “It’s really good.”
“Please throw it out,” she said through gritted teeth.
“I don’t want to see it.”
“Are you sure?” He flipped through the sketchbook. “You’ve drawn him on every page. And you’ve really captured something. Desperation. Or fear, maybe. Who is he?”
She opened her mouth to lie by telling him she didn’t know, but instead said, “My great-grandfather.”
“Really?” he mused, still staring at the drawing. “It’s a shame to throw it out.” One look at her face and he relented.
When he went to drop it in the bin in the corner of the room, she said, “No, please, not there!”
He sighed, but disappeared through the door.
By the time he returned, she’d regained much of her composure. And by the time he left, she’d forgotten about the sketchbook and the man in the fedora.
TWELVE
Eve’s Fourteenth Birthday
THERE WAS A KNOCK on her bedroom door, and Eve told her grandmother to come in. She knew it was Button because Donna never bothered to knock.
Her grandmother wore her flowered bathrobe, the one that was threadbare at the elbows and smelled of cold cream. She moved into the bedroom, automatically tidying as she went. She picked up a pile of clothing from the floor and stuffed it into the laundry basket, closed the closet door, and smoothed the comforter over the foot of the bed before sitting down. Eve rolled onto her side and placed her head in her grandma’s lap.
“One year,” Button said, stroking the curls away from her temple.
That gentle acknowledgement gave her permission to let go, and she sobbed into the floral fabric of her grandmother’s robe. Button stroked her hair, murmuring in Yiddish.
“Here,” Button said, eventually, handing her a clot of tissues.
She mopped her face and blew her nose, which was painfully raw, and dropped the used tissues on the carpet.
“I’m going to work now,” Donna said from the doorway. She wore a navy skirt and white silk blouse. Her high heels dangled from her hand. Her black hair hung glossy and perfectly straight to her chin, and her bangs were a severe wedge that ended just above her perfectly styled eyebrows.
“Okay.” Rather than look her mother in the eye, she kept her gaze on Donna’s feet. Pink nail polish showed through the tan fabric of her nylons.
“I’ll pick up the cake on my way home.”
“I don’t want a cake.”
“Then don’t eat it,” Donna said. “You’re going to be late for school.”
She looked up and accidentally met her mother’s gaze. “No way. I’m not going.”
How could Donna’s eyes look like a younger version of Button’s — or an older version of her own, for that matter — and yet be so chillingly different? Eve saw no warmth there, no caring, no kindness. Which was why she found it much easier to focus on Donna’s feet.
“You’re not going to mope around here all day,” Donna said.
“Do you have any idea what school’s like for me, now? I’m like a pariah. Do you know what kind of things the kids say to me?”
“Oh, I can imagine,” Donna said.
“Whatever you can imagine, it’s a billion times worse.”
“You’re a Gold, Eve. So, act like it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means stiffen your spine and keep going.”
“Oh, yeah. Great. I’ll just go ahead and do that.” Donna padded away to the kitchen.
“Thanks for the pep talk, Mom!” Eve called out.
“Eve,” Button said.
“Oh, you’re welcome!” Donna called back.
They listened to the click of her high heels across the kitchen linoleum. The door creaked open and slammed closed, and a minute later they heard the rumble of Donna’s car starting.
“I really don’t want to go to school.”
Button sighed and stroked the hair from her forehead. “I know.”
“Do I have to?”
“It’s not my place to go around your mother,” Button said. “Just try to get through the day.”
“I don’t feel good,” Eve said.
“I’d be surprised if you did.”
“No, seriously. My stomach feels all wobbly.”
“I’m sure you’ll feel better once you’ve had some breakfast. You go on and get ready for school, and I’ll make you some eggs. Okay?”
Her grandmother was almost at the door when she asked, “Do you think I’ll forget her?”
The Day She Died Page 6