The Mark

by Jen Nadol

  The bell interrupted Mr. Dempsey’s explanation of the assassination caught on tape.

  “Team A wins,” he called while the class filed toward the door. “Thirty-two to seventeen.”

  “Cassie does it again,” Jack Petroski said, looking over his shoulder to smile at me as he steered Val through the door.

  “Nice going, Cass,” Val agreed. Jack had his arm around her.

  I shrugged, trying to ignore the twinge I felt watching them. Watching him. “A team effort.”

  Jack snickered.

  “Good luck, Val,” I said gamely, waving as I turned down the hallway toward my locker. Val and I weren’t buddies, but there were few people in our class of forty-six who weren’t friendly with each other. Ashville High was too small for battle lines between cheerleaders and nerds, preps and emos. We barely had enough kids to fill the categories.

  As I twirled the combination of my lock, Tasha Lusetovich sauntered down the hall, her dark glossy hair pulled away from her face by a blue bandanna. On anyone else, it would have looked like they’d just finished at their uncle’s farm, but on Tasha it was somehow elegant. Like everything she wore. Tasha and I had been fast friends when she’d moved to our small Pennsylvania town from New York two years before. I’d known as soon as I saw her sitting alone on the steps, waiting for the doors of her new school to open, that she’d be interesting. She had ignored all the chattering around her, her nose buried in a thick paperback that turned out to be John Irving. My kind of chick. But Tasha and I weren’t close enough that I’d told her about Robert McKenzie. Only Nan was close enough for that.

  Of course I’d looked him up. The dead man. I followed every newspaper article for the week after, until his name, his photos, his life faded from the daily events. Nan neither encouraged nor discouraged me, picking up papers from the supermarket upon request. We didn’t talk about it, but I saw her reading them late at night, her soft white hair fuzzy around the hand that propped her cheek.

  He was forty-one years old. One child: a daughter. That part hurt. God knows I knew what she was going through, my own parents killed in a car accident when I was two.

  The McKenzies lived in a brick house, ostentatious with white columns and clipped hedges. It was on our side of town, but too far from the apartment to walk. I rode my bike instead, leaning it against a No Parking sign while I pretended to tie my shoe across the street. The curtains were drawn and there was a museum-like quality to the house. Silent. Frozen in time.

  I thought about him a lot: about where his life might have gone, where his daughter’s, his wife’s would go now. It was tough to get that day out of my head, even standing in the shiny school hallway two months later.

  “Earth to Renfield,” Tasha said, poking my shoulder.

  “Hey.” I tossed my history book into the locker. “What’s up?”

  She shrugged. “Nada mucho. You coming over today?”

  “Yeah.” I shut the locker and we started down the hall toward the auditorium. “I’ll definitely need to wear the guard, though.” I held out my arm and pushed back the sleeve. “The inside of my elbow is raw.”

  “Wimp.”

  We had found Tasha’s dad’s bow and arrows a couple weeks ago, poking around her attic one afternoon. Instead of telling us to stay out of his stuff, her dad had bought a target and some bales of hay and set up a practice range for us in their garage. I liked the feel of the bow in my arms, curving protectively above and below me, like a shield. I was getting pretty good, even better than Tasha, who I was pretty sure was practicing on the sly.

  We had almost reached the double steel doors to the auditorium when the PA crackled my name: “Cassandra Renfield to the main office, please.”

  Tasha and I exchanged a look. “Want me to come?” she asked.

  “Nah. Go on in. Save me a seat.” I kept my voice light, though I doubted I’d make it to the assembly.

  I was right. The cement of the school steps was warm on my legs as I sat in the bright sun. Nan was in the hospital again, Principal McCarthy’s assistant had told me. I’d suspected as much.

  I could hear the boom-boom-boom of the bass drum and crash of cymbals from the auditorium while I waited for my cab. “I already called,” the assistant had said when I asked about getting one. “It should be here any minute.” Which would be accurate if she really meant any minute twenty minutes from now. Taxis in Ashville were notoriously slow. Nan would be in her room by the time I got there, hooked up to the IVs and drips that stabilized her blood sugar, bringing her back to herself.

  A school bus turned the corner I’d been watching for my cab, slowly cruising toward me. I looked away. I hadn’t ridden one in years and wouldn’t mind if I never did again. They’d never bothered me before Mrs. Gettis, but now they reminded me of the West Lakes kids, the link between her and Mr. McKenzie that made me nearly certain what I’d see when I followed him two months ago.

  When Nan told me about Mrs. Gettis that day at the hospital, I knew almost immediately where I needed to go. She’d wanted me to stay. Rest. Of course, the only other bed was Mrs. G.’s, which wasn’t going to fly.

  It was a quick walk to the main branch of the Ashville Library, one I barely remembered, my mind utterly consumed with Mrs. Gettis and a much older memory.

  “I’d like to see papers from a while back,” I told the librarian. “Around ten or eleven years ago, I think.”

  “Those would still be on microfilm,” the librarian answered. “We’re scanning everything into computers, but it’s going very slowly. All the film is in the basement.”

  It took me nearly two hours to find what I was looking for. I knew it was spring or fall, warm outside, but that still left a lot of days. When the front page flashed on the backlit screen, I knew right away that I’d found it. The school looked exactly as I’d remembered. Staring at the headline, I realized that I could have asked the librarian when it had happened. She’d have known in an instant, but I was glad I hadn’t. I didn’t want to hear her memories. I wanted to focus on my own.

  SCHOOL BUS CRASH KILLS TWELVE

  A school bus carrying 26 West Lakes Elementary School students plunged 40 feet off the side of a highway overpass Monday in Gideon, killing at least 12 children, according to school, police and fire officials.

  A witness told police it appeared that a small car struck the bus, which then went over the guardrail of Interstate 565, crashing onto Church Street.

  Police are attempting to find the driver of the car. It took authorities about an hour to transport the 26 students and the bus driver to Gideon Hospital, police officer Richard Johnson said.

  The emergency room was overwhelmed. “It was a very chaotic scene and parents were just frantic,” Johnson said. “Gideon has never seen an accident like this involving students.”

  He noted that the bus—like nearly all school buses—was not equipped with adequate seat belts or air bags.

  Nan and I had “gone visiting” that day, eleven years before, bringing food to a housebound woman who lived outside town. I’d tried to keep up with Nan over block after block, hot in my wool coat. It was too tight, pinning my arms when I tried to swing them all the way front.

  “Come on, Cassie.” Nan turned and waited for me to catch up. I could hear the shouts of children ahead. Inside the chain-link fence surrounding the school yard, sun glinted off the slide and swing chains rattled. I was about to ask Nan if we could stop there after visiting the lady’s house, when I saw them: the glowing kids. There was a whole group together, bouncing a red rubber ball. Kids not so much bigger than me. My eyes swept the playground, seeing a few more: one on the swings. One running and laughing. One sitting alone, back against the school wall. I stared, not realizing I’d stopped until Nan called from the end of the block.

  “Cassie! Come on.” I ran to her, my shoes slap-slapping on the sidewalk. “Let’s deliver this food, hon, before it starts to go bad.”

  Nan grasped my hand, her fingers firm around my wrist
, and started to walk.

  “Why are those kids lit up?”

  She hesitated, frowning and looking down at me. “What kids?”

  “Back there.” I pointed to the playground.

  Nan turned, dropping my hand to shade her eyes. “What do you mean ‘lit up’?” She searched the playground slowly before turning back to me. “You mean by the sun?”

  I shrugged. It wasn’t the sun. Some were in the shadow of the school building and some weren’t, but they all looked the same. Even from far away I could see the light around them, like a candle with something hiding just the flame.

  Nan glanced at the school again, her eyes narrowed, searching. “I don’t see anything, Cass. How are they ‘lit up’?”

  But I didn’t have the words, and anyway, I think I knew she didn’t see it. “Can we go to that playground after?” I asked instead.

  Nan reached for my hand again and we crossed the street. “I don’t think so, sweetie. It’s for the school. Maybe we can find another one.”

  I don’t remember if we went to a playground later or not, but I remember those kids. It was the kind of thing that sticks with you, maybe my earliest memory. I was four.

  I’d left the library in a daze, trying hard not to think about the mark, forcing away the terrible suspicion of what it was. I’d waited until Nan was discharged from the hospital to tell her. It would be easier in the security of our home, I’d thought. Plus, I needed a few days to sort it out, make sure I wasn’t crazy or delusional, though I couldn’t really think of a way to explain it without sounding like one or both. I was going to let Nan settle in, unpack, have some tea or whatever, but as soon as the apartment door closed behind us, she said, “So, are you going to tell me what’s up?”

  “What do you mean?” I looked down, shuffling the mail that I’d organized the day before.

  “You’ve been distracted for days, Cassie. Is something wrong at school?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?” She stood, arms akimbo, more like a drill sergeant than a convalescent.

  I nodded, at a total loss for how to start. “Do you remember the bus accident that happened in Gideon a while back?” I finally asked. “The one with a bunch of West Lakes Elementary School kids?”

  Nan nodded. “I do. It was about eight or nine years ago.”

  “Eleven,” I corrected.

  “Could be,” she agreed slowly, her eyes faraway.

  “We passed that school the day it happened.”

  “I remember,” she said. “We were going to Miss Loretta’s house. Do you remember her?”

  “Not really.”

  “We were there three or four times to bring her food or groceries, sometimes just to visit. You loved the figurines she kept by the window.” Images of delicate, lacy castles and cats ran through my mind as Nan looked back at me. “What about the accident?”

  “There were children playing outside when we passed the school,” I reminded her. “I saw something.” I stopped, trying to find the right words. “A light, kind of a glow, around them. Not all of them, but a bunch. About twelve.”

  Though her expression didn’t change, there was a sharpening in her dark eyes. Recognition.

  “I saw the same thing this week at the hospital. On Mrs. Gettis when Norton wheeled her out of the room.” I paused and, just to be clear, added, “The day she died.”

  Nan bit her lip and I heard her sharp intake of breath, breaking the silence in the apartment. Her hands had fallen to the side, no longer on her hips, but dangling impotently. We were still in the foyer and I wished we’d made it to the living room, because Nan looked drained, as if her body might sink to the floor. When she spoke, though, her voice was calm. Quiet, but strong. “What are you saying, Cassie?”

  I shrugged, though there wasn’t much uncertainty about it. “I’m saying … that I think I see something—this mark—when someone is about to die.”

  She nodded slowly as if this crazy, awful thing I’d told her was perfectly normal. Then Nan crossed the foyer in two sure steps and gave me a hug. “Come,” she said, typically Nan. “Help me make some tea.”

  It was a huge relief to have said it, my body feeling physically weakened. I’d known Nan would listen, she always did, but still I’d been afraid. This was much different from telling her I’d failed a test or thought the kids’ charity she’d donated to was a fraud. Those things might upset her, but at least they were believable.

  We purposely talked of the everyday while we worked; Nan asked about the neighbors, the mail, my tests and papers. It wasn’t until we were in our usual spots on the sofa that we went back to it. Nan’s legs were curled close to her body. She always sat that way, snuggled up against herself, her body leaving a permanent imprint on the cushion.

  “I remember that day,” she said, cupping her mug. “We got lost. That’s why we passed West Lakes. You asked me something about the kids, something odd.”

  I nodded, sipping my tea for distraction.

  “Tell me about it, Cassie.” She waited without the slightest hint of anxiety or eagerness or fear. She was like this in everything. And only because of that could I share the implausible, the impossible.

  “There’s not much to tell, not much more than I’ve already said.” I took a deep breath, trying again to find the right words. “It’s a light, a glow. Like an outline around the person.”

  “Bright?”

  I pictured Mrs. Gettis rolling past us in her wheelchair, before shaking my head. “Not so that it’s hard to look at. More … constant, I guess. Not a glare.”

  “Not a reflection? Like the sun off metal?”

  “No. But it also doesn’t come from within the person. It’s not like they’re glowing, exactly …” It sounded ridiculous. “More like they’re standing in front of something lit and I can see its glow around them. But when they move, the light always stays behind them.” I shook my head and said what I knew Nan was thinking: “It sounds crazy.”

  “It does,” she agreed, “but you’re not the crazy type, Cass. There have been others? Besides Mrs. G. and the kids?”

  I nodded.

  “A lot?”

  “Not a lot. But enough.” More than enough, now that I knew what it meant. Nan waited, sipping her tea, her eyes never leaving mine. “The last one before Mrs. Gettis was a year or two ago. We were driving through town, going to the mall, I think. She was old, sitting on a bench. It was quick, I barely saw her.”

  “And before that?”

  “I don’t know. It seems like there’s always such a long stretch between. I haven’t paid that much attention.” Even as I said it, though, I could see them flashing before me: a young mother pushing a stroller, a man in a wheelchair, a couple kissing before they got in their car. Years of them imprinted on my brain.

  “You’re sure that’s what it means?” she asked.

  “No.” How could anyone be sure of something so outlandish? “But I think it’s a possibility. A very real one. What else could it be?”

  We finished our tea, neither of us answering my question with the obvious response that it could be anything. Anything would be more likely than what I’d told her. It wasn’t until we put our mugs down that Nan broke the silence.

  “So, what now?”

  “I don’t know,” I had answered. “I need to think about it.” But the idea had already formed. I knew what I needed to do and the next day, I told Nan my plan. The one that had led me to Mr. McKenzie.

  Looking back, it seems weird that I didn’t question more—before Mrs. Gettis and Mr. McKenzie—what the mark meant or why I saw it. I guess it’s like hearing a strange noise or seeing a flash of lightning. You hold your breath until it happens again. And again. Each time you get closer to pinpointing its origin. I had seen the mark a handful of times in my life. Sometimes no more than a passing glimpse, like the old woman on the bench. The sightings were never close enough to link one to the next or discern a pattern. It itched at me a little more every time,
but that nagging feeling always dissipated as days passed. It was a small idiosyncrasy in my life back then. Maybe there was a why and maybe not. It didn’t really matter.

  A car turned onto my street, following the path the school bus had taken fifteen minutes before. I squinted, just able to make out writing on the side. Had to be my cab. Finally.

  “Ashville General, please,” I told the driver as I climbed in, headed back to the hospital where I’d finally put it all together—what the mark meant.

  He nodded. “The lady told me when she called. Your grandmother’s sick, huh?”

  I should have been annoyed, but I knew the principal’s assistant only meant well. I could almost hear the conversation: poor dear, no other family, such a burden, don’t let her brood.

  “Yeah, diabetes. No big deal, just a hassle to keep up with sometimes.”

  “My brother-in-law’s uncle had it. Always shootin’ up with the needles.”

  He had the accent of somewhere else, but I didn’t feel like asking about it. Or talking about the uncle. “Uh-huh.”

  Ashville slid past us, a blur of new leaves, bright sky, and solid family homes. We were at the hospital within fifteen minutes.

  Nan was sleeping when I entered the room. She was propped against a pile of pillows and I could hear the faintest of snores. There were three IVs by her side, their needles jabbed into her bony arm. She looked gray, as she often did when these episodes started. And she looked old, partly because we were in a hospital, but mostly just because she was.

  “I’m here, Nan,” I whispered, placing my hand gently on her free arm. “I’m going to the nurses’ station for a few minutes, but I’ll be right back.”

  Tina was on, as I hoped she’d be.

  “Sucks to see you,” I greeted her.

  “Same.” She smiled gently, her dusky skin radiant, even under the hospital’s fluorescent lights. “How are you, Cass?”

  “Fine. How’s Nan?”

  “Pretty much the usual. We’ve run her sugars, given her insulin. We should have the labs back in”—she checked the wall clock—“another twenty minutes or so.”