Ephemeral (The Countenance)

by Addison Moore

  In the early hours of dawn, a thin grey film stretches across the sky. It melts over the fields, erases the morning with its ever-present haze. I lie back down on the bed and burrow into Wesley’s arms. There was no way in hell I was going to sleep in this room alone after what happened.

  A mean shiver rails through me as Cooper and his kiss burn through my memory. It reintroduces itself to my lips as if it were happening in real time.

  I spike up and shake the thought away. It was a dream. All of it must have been a dream. Things like that just don’t happen. You don’t get accosted by monsters that happen to be impersonating a human and then end up in an underground tunnel with the son of your psychiatrist.

  “Morning, sunshine.” Wes groans, pulling the pillow over his head. He’s still wearing his clothes from the night before. His sweater is rumpled and creased, and I can’t help but curl my lips knowing I helped put those wrinkles there.

  He peers at me from behind the pillow, then pulls it away revealing a devilish grin blooming as he drips his gaze at me, heavy with a patina of lust.

  “I’d better get out of here before Jen rips my balls off.”

  “I’m guessing Jen is allergic to the aforementioned body parts.” True story.

  “Touché.” He climbs over and straddles his legs on either side of me, pausing to view me from his new height advantage.

  There he is, Wesley Parker in a compromising position over my person. The air evacuates from my lungs, and I’m lightheaded just seeing him from this perspective.

  His cheeks fill with color as he completes the dismount. “What’s going through your mind?” He runs his fingers over my hair, soft as a waterfall.

  “I don’t want to talk about last night. I’ll go crazy if you tell me any of that was real.”

  He gives a tired nod. “I’ll shower and be right back. Will you be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.” I think. There don’t seem to be too many definitive ideals I can cling to anymore like being safe in the confines of my supposed bedroom.

  Wes brandishes the gun that spits out explosive arrows before replacing it on the nightstand.

  “Thank you.” I give a circular nod as he leaves the room.

  I draw my knees up and ponder the fact my new world requires weaponry to battle, of all things, angels and the undead.

  A thought comes to me.

  If this is my room, it should be filled with my things. My stuff should be here somewhere. The landscape of this room should be covered with an indelible footprint of fabric and shoes.

  In my old room, I left my clothes on the ground—all of them. I’m not opposed to a clean room, it’s just that there was a defunct dresser in my closet, and my clothes were easier to access when I could see them splayed out all over the floor like some textile explosion. I sort of miss walking through the soft fabric puddle. The scent of the perfumed detergent that I used, buffered my senses from the smell of wine that flowed so freely from my mother’s room.

  I inspect the rows of neat clothes in the closet, run my fingers over the unfamiliar sweaters and jeans, and marvel at how nothing has ever been washed, how the scent of new clothes lingers thick in the air, giving away their secret. Whoever is in charge of misdirecting my memory is getting sloppy, letting details like unworn clothing fly under the radar. Fragile missteps like this could be the death of their counterfeit human resurrection ring. Maybe Casper wasn’t fortunate enough to expose them for the scam they’re running. Maybe Wes and Fletch were easily brainwashed, but for whatever reason, I’m proving impervious to their sleight of hand.

  I head over to a cherry-stained dresser with a heavy-lacquered topcoat. I run my fingers across the smooth gloss before rummaging through the drawers—nothing but neatly folded clothes, socks laid out in rows separated by color, underwear layered in flat piles the way you see it displayed in lingerie stores.

  They don’t know me. They wanted a meticulous type-A personality like Jen, who keeps both her closet and her hormones in check, but that’s far from what they got.

  The old me would’ve have hidden things in discrete places. A storage compartment like this was ripe for the trinkets I wanted to keep safe from Lacey’s roving eyes, moreover my mother who would pawn whatever she could get her hands on for the next bottle of malt.

  I’ve also been known to utilize more obvious locales like the top shelf in the closet or under the bed. That’s where I hid most of the things that Wes gave me—the private things I treasured. His drawings, his notes—the leaves we exchanged like currency were all present and accounted for back home.

  I get on my knees and look under the bed for any half-convincing clue that this, in fact, could have been my bedroom.

  A circular hatbox, cream with a turquoise border lies centered beneath the frame. I stretch my arm in and excavate it. A film of dust thick as a quarter lines the surface. I smooth my hand over it, watch as it rises in air-born clumps, months in the making.

  They could have covered it with lint from the dryer. You see stuff like that all the time for sale around Halloween, aerosol cans filled with spider webs, cans of dust. Just because the gossamer exists in this world, doesn’t mean I have to buy into its history. Here, there are smoke and mirrors at every turn, a demonic funhouse with both horrors and delights. Why do I get the feeling I’m about to find some old diary that supposedly belongs to me, logging an imaginary timeline that reveals how much I pined for a boy named Miles Richards.

  The lid of the hatbox comes off willingly, and I peer inside.

  I take in a quick breath and slap my hand over my mouth to hold back a scream.

  29

  The Procreators

  A picture stares back at me—a black and white photograph of the elongated corridor from my nightmare—Cooper and me pressed against the wall, our lips sealed in an opened mouth kiss.

  Oh my, God.

  My mind swirls. It draws a blank as to who may have been there, prepped and waiting like the paparazzi. My heart races at the thought of Wes seeing this—how quickly he would shove me back in the forest and run back to Kresley. I could lose him forever over the one stupid moment I chose to abandon my senses. Even if I did think it was a dream, it doesn’t make it right.

  And how the hell did this get under the bed? More importantly what if the loon who put it there is interested in distributorship? There could be copies wallpapering this entire mausoleum for all I know.

  I rush to the bathroom and shred the picture into indistinguishable pieces over the toilet. It takes fourteen tries to flush down the evidence of my indiscretion. I watch the water swirl as little bits keep floating back to the surface, mocking me with their fortitude.

  The box was empty save for the picture, and right about now, I would have preferred a diary that exuded how much I loved a dozen different boys, or an exhaustive on my homicidal tendencies toward Jen, perhaps a confession as to what happened at Rycroft that caused the senior officials to give me the boot.

  My heart sinks like a stone. For sure I’m not sharing that demonic find with Wes, but I don’t like keeping secrets from him either. We’ve made our way back to one another, and yet the barrier widens between us with each passing day.

  Most of all, I hate myself for wanting that kiss from Cooper, for accepting it and aching for another. If I could do it all over again, I’d run just as fast from him as I would any of the creatures that stalk this nightmare.

  I walk over to the window and gaze out at the blank slate of morning. This is my macabre reality, a place where monstrosities in nightgowns lure me into the forest. A place where the dead live again, and the living are but a dream. A place where Wes holds my heart and yet his grip is loosened by another—where my heart perforates from the pressure of suddenly wanting both.

  Wes and I float downstairs just as the front door swings open. Jones stains the doorway like a shadow with two less prominent figures slacking from behind.

  “We’re home!” Jones roars, prompting the scuttle of heel
s from down the hall.

  A brunette with a layered shag drops her carry-on and falls into a hug with Jen. She sniffs hard into her neck, her pale features squinting for effect as if she might engage in a good long cry. It looks eerily staged. Something heavily dramatic hangs in the air like a foul-scented lie.

  A young man that shares the same dark hair as Wes jogs down the stairs. He greets the woman with the shag who has magically composed herself.

  “How was the trip?” He holds a cheesy smile a few seconds longer than necessary. I assume him to be Blaine, the lover of all things female. He’s not nearly as handsome as Wes, too gangly. His face is squared off and gaunt—a disturbing combination.

  A tired-looking man with bloated features ambles in, struggling with two overstuffed suitcases that he kicks into the foyer with finality. He wears pillow-like bags beneath each eye. A black felt hat with a rounded brim sits just above his temples, and I try to size him up to see where he fits in the grand scheme of things. He tosses a magazine on the table that we used as a gurney last night and gives a brief hello. Jen goes over and offers a groaning hug, rocking him steadily a good long time. If there were music, you would think they were slow dancing.

  “Daddy.” She moans as if she were just rescued from a burning building.

  This must be our mock father. We almost need one to go along with our mock mother, which I presume is the mop-headed brunette.

  Fletch goes over and dots a kiss on our imposter mother’s cheek then offers a congratulatory slap on our new father’s arm as if he’s done it a thousand times before.

  All eyes drift to me. I’m not sure what’s expected. A spastic hug? A sock in the shoulder—a knee to the balls? Really I’m at a loss.

  I shoot Wes a quick look.

  “Laken.” The woman swoops over. She narrows her bright green eyes on me and languishes over my features as though this were our very first meeting. She inventories my clothes, inspects my hair, and caresses my cheek until she’s memorized me. “It’s safe to say you’ve changed the most.” Her voice pitches unnaturally. “Your hair looks like you’ve been scouring the floors with it, and—” She dots her finger over my face. “Someone’s breaking out,” she sings. “I warned you about cheap chocolate.”

  I am not breaking out. And my hair? Really?

  “Hardly recognize her myself.” The man who will be playing the role of father comes over and plants a kiss on my forehead before busying himself with a stack of mail. It felt foreign, strangely intrusive, not at all how it felt last night with Jones. With him I actually felt something—a familial connection of sorts.

  I push out a short-lived smile. I’m not sure what they expect from me or what I’ll be able to give.

  “You look like strangers yourselves,” I counter, trying not to sound too genuine in the delivery.

  “Already with the attitude.” The father doesn’t look up from the bills when he says it. His pasty skin bleaches out against the bone-colored walls. It makes him look like a corpse on the move—par for the course when you think about it.

  “Do I have an attitude?” I ask Wes, a little too loud.

  “Rycroft seemed to think so.” My new father picks up a suitcase, one in each hand, and heads for the stairs. “And judging by the fact you’ve successfully chased off your roommate, you’re not too far off at Ephemeral, either.” He gives a sharp look. “Keep it up. I hear there’s a good military academy in Virginia.”

  Crap. I’m going to land myself in military school if I’m not careful.

  “Laken never changes,” Fletch quips.

  “One thing about Laken changed.” Jen wraps her arms around Blaine’s waist as she pours out a dreamy look. “She and Wes are dating.”

  You could hear a pin drop. Jones and my mother exchange brief looks before manufacturing smiles.

  “Wes, is this true?” Jones’s baritone voice sends an unnatural vibration down the hall. It quivers through my bones like a memory.

  “I thought she’d never notice me.” Wes slides his cheek up in a naughty half-smile as if to entice me further. Little does he know I’m already sold on Wesley Parker—not sure about the Paxton version who finds it impossible to believe a thing I say.

  “I’m just glad I found him.” I wrap an arm around his shoulder, trying to ignore the ache in my chest for Mom and Lacey. Mom may not have been perfect, but the thought of me accepting this latest-not-so-greatest version makes me feel like a sellout.

  “Wes and Laken. Who would have ever thought?” My new mother turns to Jones and arches her brow. “Well,” she says, returning her attention to me, “I couldn’t think of a better person to spend your time with.” She squints heavily into the two of us, highlighting the fact she’s feeling some emotion, not necessarily the one she professes. She taps Wes on the back. “You on the other hand can do better.” She cackles, leaving her sharpened canines fully exposed.

  Dear God, not only did I manage to wind up with a critical mother, but there’s hard evidence that suggests she might be a vampire.

  “Dad” trots back downstairs. “Why all the long faces?”

  “Wes and Laken are getting it on.” Fletch pulls his lips in a line.

  “Getting what on?” The thick skin on his forehead creases. “Oh?” He expels a tired breath. “No.” He says it dull as though he understands his opinion is inconsequential. “One Paxton invasion in the family is enough. I demand a recount. Laken is just in her experimental phase. The head dean at Rycroft can testify to that.” He gives Wes a quick wave of dismissal before descending the rest of the stairs. “Please, God, let it be a phase.”

  Everyone follows Dad into the living room, and I hold Wes back a moment. “They’re not my biggest fans.”

  “They’re not fans of life in general.” Wes brushes my hair out of my eyes and presses into me with genuine concern. “So, you’ve got cranky parents. Jones adores you.” He steals a quick kiss. “So do I.”

  My stomach melts. I thank God Wesley is here and that he’s adoring me. Now, if he’d just believe the things I said about Kansas.

  “Are you okay?” His brows dip into a V.

  “I’m okay,” I lie. Nothing can ever be okay about the recasting of my family.

  We trail into the living room and settle on a small tufted ottoman. The overgrown room is lined with heavily lacquered wood, accented with dark emerald sofas.

  A painting of a boy and a hound dog hangs proud over the ornate fireplace.

  “We hit a bazaar in a local village and picked you each up a little something.” NuMom pulls a scarf out of the bag for Fletcher—navy, with bright orange poppies dotting the fabric. She can’t be serious.

  Then the unthinkable happens, and Fletch actually wraps the thing around his neck accompanied by a bona fide girl twirl.

  So freaking strange. Old Fletch would have crumpled it in a ball and tossed it right into the fire, then jumped in after it if anyone even remotely believed he might wear it. He would have reamed my mother a thousand times over if she went to a distant land and all she brought him was a feminine wrap.

  NuMom produces a small statue of an elephant for Jen. “It’s carved from soapstone,” she says before dipping back down into her bag of Ugandan goodies. “And this, my dear, is made from lapis.” She produces an exquisite blue bracelet and hands it to her as well. “Isn’t it amazing?”

  “Love them,” Jen proclaims, holding the bracelet up to the light. It’s such a brilliant hue, I can easily lose myself in it if I wanted.

  “Laken.” My new brunette mother announces my name abruptly as though I had just expelled a foul odor. She pulls out a small wooden knife with a sharpened blade and points in my direction. “Letter opener.” She pauses with a stern look as if to say it’s really not. “Your father and I would appreciate it if you took time out of your hiking schedule and wrote back once in a while.”

  Hiking?

  Fletch barks out a laugh. “There are Billy Goats that wish they could ascend and descend with that a
gility.”

  The entire room breaks out in a choir of groans as if Fletcher’s barb actually insinuated something.

  She reaches over and lands the blade of the letter opener on the delicate skin of my wrist. Her lips twitch as she pulls back on the knife, leaving a line of pink flesh rising in its wake.

  I gawk at her in disbelief.

  She almost slit my freaking wrist.

  “Oh, don’t be such a baby. It was an accident.” She rolls her eyes, dropping the blade to my feet. “It means nothing. Isn’t that what you said when they shipped you home with all of your belongings? Everything is a big joke.”

  I’ll have to ask Wes to fill me in on what I did to get myself kicked out of Rycroft and why I’m suddenly wishing I were back there, far from this brute group of people who claim to be my anything. And what the hell kind of bond do I have with this woman who just handed me a knife in an effort to improve our relationship? Suicidal—homicidal?

  “Let’s cut to the bottom line.” Dad clears his throat. His shock of dark hair shines from the canned lighting above. As much as I hate to admit it, there’s something remote about his features that sort of reminds me of Fletch. “As you all know, we’re eligible for a sabbatical for the next six months, and we’ve decided…” He lets his words hang for effect. “We’re not going to take it.”

  “We’re headed to Honduras!” Mom shouts with the enthusiasm usually reserved for lottery winners. Her teeth glint in the light, and I can’t help but notice the familiar frame of her jaw, her eyebrows, twins to mine. Her effigy lodges in my stomach welcome as a machete.

  “So tell me, Lakey…” She bites down a smile. “How did you manage to chase away the new roommate so soon?” Her eyes sparkle with the barb. I have to admit, this new version of my mother is as beautiful as she is abrasive. The original one from Cider Plains is beautiful, too, but in a far more dangerous way. Everything was dangerous about my mother right down to her constant run-ins with the Department of Social Services. It was a miracle she managed to keep her children under one roof. For as much as she wanted her liquor, she wanted us kids. After Fletch died, both her alcohol consumption and her stranglehold on me and my sisters proliferated—thus original Jen’s sudden exodus to Spain.