by Pam Eaton
Stop.
She didn’t care about me. Wondering about these questions isn’t going to solve anything.
“We ask thee, oh Father, to please bless Rebecca and her grandparents.”
Something pricks the hairs on the back of my neck and the cool autumn breeze makes me shiver. I turn and scan the rows of graves. Someone moves from the base of a tree and walks away. I can’t see them, but I felt their eyes zeroed in on me. Or I’m overreacting. Hopefully the latter. But everything has changed now, and I don’t feel safe anymore. Not since the night she died. My mind wanders back to the woods, causing my body to start trembling. “Get it together, Becca,” I whisper to myself.
“And now we return this shell to earth and will mourn the beautiful light that has been extinguished.”
I brace myself right before they lower her and slip on my steel mask of indifference. I’ve had a lot of years to perfect this face, to make it seem like I’m not affected by my mother. I take a white rose and place it on top of the casket. In a low, angry whisper I say, “Thanks for nothing, Mom, just like old times.”
It’s hard, but regardless of what I feel, she was my mother and brought me into a world with these amazing grandparents. I should at least be grateful to her for that.
As my hand grazes the top of the casket, an unexpected surge of electricity rushes over me, pushing me down to my knees.
Not again.
Liquid lightning shoots straight through my veins and I grasp desperately for the grass. The feeling is exhilarating, exciting and frightening all at the same time. My feet slip underneath me as I try to stand and back away from the casket.
“Are you okay?” Grandpa asks, helping me steady my feet as he pulls me aside.
I gaze hard into his eyes, trying to figure out what the heck just happened. His body may appear calm, but I see the panic in his eyes. “I…I don’t know what happened. It was like what I felt the other day.”
He shoots a cautious look at the perplexed minister and assures him, “She’s okay, just overcome with grief.”
The minister nods his head like this is a normal occurrence, and the funeral home workers begin to lower my mother into the ground. I look toward my grandma, but she’s tenderly touching the headstone of her son’s grave again, lost in her own world of sorrow. Wiping tears from her rosy cheeks, she bends down and her fingers unclamp the daises so she can lay them next to his grave. For a moment she stands there in silence and then turns back to my grandpa. Her bottom lip quivers. “I just miss him so much, Joe.”
He nods his head in agreement. We all stand and continue to watch as my mom disappears into the ground.
“May God bless her soul.”
And please bless mine as well, because I have no idea what power I just inherited from my dearly departed mother.
Four
I train my eyes on the colorful leaves outside the car window. “That was a lovely service,” Grandma says.
Grandpa pats her hand. “Sure was.”
“Don’t you agree, Becca?” Grandma asks.
“It was more than she deserved,” I answer.
She sucks in a harsh breath and before Grandpa can scold me I say, “Sorry, Grandma, I’m just not myself today.”
She turns and faces me. Her eyes soften as they sweep my face. “Grief takes on so many forms, and funerals don’t make it any easier. But don’t hold on to that anger for too long. It’ll eat you up inside, turning into poison,” Grandma tells me.
“I wish she didn’t leave us in the dark about this power,” I say.
“I know, sweets,” Grandpa says.
I would love to know what’s happening to me. I would love not to worry about being hauled off to Area 51. Why didn’t my mom leave me a letter, a note, or anything in the form of an explanation of what to do right now or what power I have? But of course, that would be too much to ask. She was always too busy finding her next fix or working for her next dollar. I was always extra baggage she needed to unload. Never mind a note saying: “Hey, daughter I never see. Just a heads up: the power you’re going to inherit from me is (fill in the blank here).” What if I can turn things into gold? But then again, what if I can perform the killing curse without a magical wand? Do the wrong thing and poof, I’m now on some secret top-ten most-wanted list.
“We’ll figure this out as a family. I promise,” Grandpa tells me.
He’ll keep to his promise. I don’t doubt that. What’s making my palms sweat is who else might know about me. It doesn’t help that I keep thinking about how people with any special abilities get treated in movies. I shouldn’t have watched X-Men last week. Now I’m going to have nightmares about underground government facilities.
“Wait, what if I start shooting laser beams out of my eyes?” I sound hysterical even to my own ears, but come on.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, that would have already happened,” Grandpa says in a nonchalant tone.
How can he sound so calm about this when I’m having a panic attack in the back seat?
We pull down the lane to our home. My shoulders start to droop. Being angry is exhausting. “I’m going for a run,” I tell them after we pull into the driveway.
I take off down our maple-lined street at a slow jog. Testing my knee. I shake my head in disbelief. I can’t believe how great it feels. Wait, does this mean I have super healing abilities?
I turn into the woods.
I have to test this.
My feet brush away the fallen leaves, looking for a small branch.
There.
I pick it up and bring it down across my knee, breaking it in two. My eyes fix on the sharp end.
Deep breath.
The tip digs into my arm—
“Holy— ow!”
Blood pools and I press my hand over the gash on my arm.
“Stupid friggin’ branch.” I probably have splinters on top of the cut. A squirrel most likely pissed on this, and now I’m going to get rabies or something. Going to need a tetanus shot too.
This was a bad idea. Another to add to the list recently.
I pull my hand off my arm. Guess I can check off no on the miraculous healing bit. Now I need to run home and get a Band-Aid. Along with a bath of disinfectant.
I take off, continuing to cut through the woods.
Ahead, a fallen tree blocks my path. I pick up the speed, planning my jump.
I pump my legs harder.
My feet leave the ground. Everything blurs.
Blink.
I land with a thud, kicking up leaves and dirt. I didn’t put that much effort into my jump.
Blink.
Where’s the tree? I slowly turn.
The fallen tree is fifty feet behind me.
Whoa. I stumble into the closest tree, sagging against it. “How…” I whisper.
I scramble to my feet and head toward the log, scanning the ground.
No footprints.
No disturbed leaves aside from where I landed.
What the…? I grip the back of my neck. Did I fly? No, that sounds too crazy. Because having some sort of power isn’t crazy enough. Maybe I can jump long distances?
I rock back on my heels and leap forward. But I only go a few feet. Was it the sprinting?
The snapping of a twig causes me to freeze. “Hello?”
Nothing but silence greets me. And that’s just super creepy.
My feet slowly shuffle backwards. Time to head home, but slowly. Can’t let anyone see.
Five
The porch swing sways from the pressure of my foot on the rail. Hushed voices drift through the screen door. Too quiet for me to even eavesdrop. Wouldn’t matter; my mind is too busy processing my run.
Car doors slam, making my gaze snap to the street. I’m met by a very pleasant surprise.
My eyes involuntary survey the perfect specimen coming toward me. Standing at about 6’2” is one of the most gorgeous guys I have ever encountered. His brown hair curls just slightly above his e
ars, and he has vibrant green eyes. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt fitted across his broad shoulders and chest. He has to be in his early twenties.
He strolls toward me, and I finally catch he’s not alone. Striding next to him is a beautiful, tall blonde. With her long legs, platinum hair, killer blue eyes, and toned body, life tells me again that it’s unfair.
He walks toward my spot on the porch, full of purpose and confidence. I stay seated and pray he doesn’t notice me gawking at him. With an almost knowing smile, he approaches. “Rebecca Hunter?”
Never has the sound of my name seemed so alluring until now. Definitely need to record him saying my name. “Umm yes, that’s me.” I wince at the sound of my voice cracking.
“Gregory Johnson. Nice to meet you.”
He’s polite enough to overlook my cracking voice as he extends his hand, and I stand to shake it. As our hands touch, warmth surges all over my body. It’s not like the electricity I felt at my mother’s funeral or when I realized she had passed away. No, it’s more intense, exhilarating, and makes my heart flutter. He smiles and I swear the green in his eyes becomes more vibrant.
“All right” is my witty reply.
He finally drops my hand. I can’t believe I was still holding it. My mind is racing with the stupidity of my actions right now. Really, all I can get out of my mouth is “all right”? This amazing-looking guy is standing in front of me and all I can say is “all right”? Mental face palm.
“Ania Kowalski,” the blonde says, her voice basically purring with a thick Slavic accent.
Gregory pulls something off his belt and then shows me his badge. “We’re with the FBI.”
“You don’t look like feds.” More like models.
They’ve got to know something about me or my mother—the timing is just too convenient. About seven years ago, two men who looked straight out of Men in Black came knocking on our door looking for her. My grandma ushered me into the kitchen, but I could hear my grandpa telling them he didn’t know where she was and didn’t care either. I don’t know why they thought she would be at their home. She never came to visit. Their stay was short, and I was glad. They brought uneasiness with them into our home, and both my grandparents refused to talk about it.
“We’re sorry for your loss,” he tells me, bringing my attention back.
“Did you know her?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
“Didn’t think so.”
His eyes hold mine with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Why?” he asks.
I wrap my arms around myself. “You wouldn’t be saying sorry if you did.”
He takes a step forward, but stops as the front door slams shut. Crap.
“Becca!” my grandpa shouts from behind me. Guess he heard that. “Sorry, she’s still angry.” He looks at me with a frown on his face and my eyes dart to the ground.
“Can we come in?” Ania asks.
“Yes,” Grandpa says and starts ushering us all in.
We all start to sit on the couches as Grandma walks into the living room, wringing her hands. Unexpected company always puts her on edge. Or maybe she’s remembering the last time people showed up from the FBI.
“We know about the gift you’ve inherited,” Gregory says.
Wow, he doesn’t waste any time. And of course they know.
“What?” Grandma asks, her voice a harsh whisper.
“Am I being dragged off for testing?” I ask, and my grandpa lets out an irritated sigh next to me. I’ll just ignore that.
“No. Quite the opposite, actually. We’re here to recruit you.”
Grandpa leans forward. “Recruit for what?” he asks. Oh, that tone. That’s his I think you’re full of it voice.
“Totally X-Men,” I mutter, shifting the attention off Grandpa.
“Sorry?” Gregory asks.
“Nothing,” I quickly reply.
“We have an internship program for people like Becca. People with—” she hesitates a moment “—gifts,” Ania says.
“Yes.” Gregory’s eyes lock on mine. “And Becca, I’m guessing you already experienced something odd. Probably pertaining to your gift?”
What’s with the word gift? Is the house bugged? I know I’ve needed to keep this quiet, but why are they seriously evasive?
“No, she—” I must have made a noise, because everyone focuses on me. “Becca?” Grandpa asks.
I clear my throat. “During my run,” I admit.
Grandpa drags a hand across his face. “Later” is his curt reply.
“How do we know you’re who you say you are?” I ask.
“Your grandpa has contacts he can call to verify us,” he says, and my grandpa makes a choking noise next to me. Odd.
I look between the two men. Gregory’s face seems to say like we don’t know all about you, while grandpa seems shell-shocked.
Huh, never seen anyone put Grandpa in his place. Never mind someone young enough to be his own grandchild.
Gregory holds out a card. “Here. As soon as you confirm we’re legit, call the number and set up a time to come down so we can tell you more.”
Grandpa snatches the card and Gregory and Ania stand up.
Ania clears her throat, making me tear my eyes away from Grandpa and his erratic behavior. “You’re going to need help with this. Don’t wait too long.” Her voice is almost pleading, like she understands.
“You’re not alone,” Gregory tells me, his voice strong and reassuring.
They head for the door and I follow them out, alone. “We’ll see you soon,” Gregory says, seeming totally confident that they will.
I stand on the porch as they walk away. The view of him from behind is almost as enjoyable as the front.
He stumbles on the path.
Guess even the pretty ones have some flaws.
He shakes his head, and I’m fairly certain he just put some swagger in his walk.
I stay on the porch, watching as they pull away.
Definitely stalling, though.
“Becca!”
My head and shoulders slump.
Can’t stall anymore.
Six
I settle back into the couch, waiting for something. A lecture, a discussion—I don’t know what, but something.
A knock at the door makes us all jump. What is with today?
Grandpa motions for us to stay seated and proceeds cautiously toward the window behind the couch. He pulls the curtain back a fraction of an inch and looks through it, then his tense shoulders relax. “Just the mailman; no need to worry. Becca, why don’t you go out and get the mail from him?”
I step onto to the porch and eye the man in front of me. I’m becoming paranoid. He’s just an average guy standing at the door waiting in his postal worker uniform. There’s nothing extraordinary about him. His eyes though—they tell a whole different story. They’re piercing grey and filled with rage. I’ve always heard the joke about crazy postal workers, but this seems a little too intense. Since when do mailmen knock, anyway? He shoves the mail, including a small box, into my hands and an uneasy feeling washes over me as his gaze doesn’t break with mine. “Thank you,” I tell him.
He lingers for a moment—a moment too long—and then heads back toward the road, rounding the hedge and out of view. I have no idea where his truck is. I look up and down the street, but nothing. Something else catches my attention; a gold sedan parked across the street. Goosebumps race up my arms and the hair on my neck stands, alerting me of danger. I don’t like that car.
My heart races. I return back inside and make sure to deadbolt the door. I don’t know what good it will do, but it gives me some sort of comfort. “How long has that car been out there?”
“Don’t be paranoid, dear,” my grandma says.
Really? Did we not just have two government agents show up at our house asking to recruit me? How can I not be paranoid? Granted, my grandparents always accuse me of being paranoid. But it’s kind of hard not to be when you
’re worried that someone is going to come collect a debt from your mother or that someone will find out you’ll have powers someday. It’s the reason I room alone at school. I don’t trust a lot of people.
Grandpa rubs a hand over his tired face. “I want to make a few phone calls. This seems a little too timely. I want to make sure it’s legitimate.”
He turns on his heel and walks into his office as I sit here staring at my grandmother.
I look back down at the small box I still have clutched in my hands. It’s addressed to the family of Linda Hunter. “What’s that?” Grandma asks.
I hand the box over to her. “It’s got my mom’s name on it.”
She looks down at the address and then back up at me. “You should open it, sweetie. You are her family.”
I take the package back carefully. Because apparently I think it could bite me or something. Just a box. I pull the tape off and pull open the flaps. A large woman’s wallet lays at the bottom with a note. I grab the letter. “What’s it say?” Grandma asks.
I scan it over. “It’s from the hospital. It’s her things that she was brought in with.” I put down the letter and grab the wallet.
As I start to unzip it, a large gold coin drops in my lap. The phrase To Thine Own Self Be True are inscribed on it. I let my fingers run over the words. “Do you know what this is?” I ask, handing it to my grandma.
She looks at both sides. “Huh.” Her face scrunches up.
“What?” I ask leaning forward.
She looks at it for a moment longer. “This is a medallion from Alcoholics Anonymous for a year of sobriety.”
I slump back against the couch. “Sobriety? But she just overdosed.” The words just flow out of my mouth.
She levels me with a pity-filled look. “You don’t stop being an addict. That’s why they say they’re in recovery. Sometimes people slip. Even after years of working toward being clean.”
I look back down at my lap; at the wallet still lying there. A piece of newspaper sticks out. I tug it out and unfold it. It’s a picture. Of me. From a basketball game last year. What’s she doing with this? I shove it all back in the box. I can’t deal with this now.