by Cynthia Hand
I don’t feel anything. I don’t think anything. I just breathe. In and out. In and out.
Tucker strokes my hair. There’s something so tender about the gesture. It might as well have been him whispering I love you.
I love you too, I send to him, even though he won’t hear it.
But I don’t feel love. I say it because I know it to be true, but I don’t feel it. I’m too numb for that. I don’t deserve his love, I think. Even now, that moment with Christian in the cemetery is like a dark cloud in my mind.
Three days pass. That’s something you don’t expect, either. You think, death, then funeral, then graveside and all that, then done. But between the death and the funeral there’s a million small events nobody ever thinks about. Writing obituaries. Choosing flowers. Picking out what my mom will wear as she lies in the casket, and what clothes I will wear to her funeral, which for me is a no-brainer: black dress, Mom’s sensible pumps, her silver charm bracelet. I even tell Jeffrey which tie he should wear, the striped silver one, but when I say that he gives me this cold look, and tells me he’s going to wear a black tie.
I don’t know what this means. It’s like my purple corduroy jacket the day of the fire.
Could the balance of the universe be affected by the color of a tie?
Tucker skips school the first day to stay with me. Mostly this entails him sitting in the chair next to mine while I sit and do nothing, trying to talk to me, occasionally asking me if I need anything, and I almost always say no, until later that night, when I say, “Can you go home?
No offense, but I want to be alone right now.” It’s true. I want to be alone. But I also specifically don’t want to be around Tucker right now, because there are things I’m not telling him, big things, and I don’t want to think about those things.
He says yes, of course, sure, he understands, but he’s offended. I don’t need my empathy to see the hurt on his face.
Every day I sense Christian somewhere nearby. Not trying to talk to me. Not pushing anything on me, any kind of response. Just near. He lets me be alone, but he’s also there, on the edges, in case I don’t want to be.
How does he understand to do that? He was only a kid when his mom died, but still, he gets it. Is it the same for everybody, I wonder, or is Christian so in tune with me that he understands what I need on some other level?
On the third day, Tucker confronts me, not in a mean sort of way, but in a please-let-me-help-you-why-won’t-you-let-me-help-you sort of way. I’m lying in bed, not sleeping, not doing anything, and he suddenly comes into my room.
“I want to be here for you,” he says, no hello or anything. “It’s that simple.” My eyes dart to the window. No Christian.
“Okay.”
“But you won’t let me. You won’t let me in, Clara. You’re pushing me away. You won’t tell me what you’re feeling.”
“I’m not feeling anything,” I tell him. “I don’t mean to push you away.” But the truth is, I do mean to push him away.
He doesn’t accept this. “You’ve been pushing me away for months. You don’t tell me things, like you didn’t tell me about that bad angel. I’m still waiting, you know, for you to tell me about what happened with that guy, but you don’t say anything. You think I can’t handle it.”
“Tucker.”
“Why do I get the feeling lately that you’re just biding your time with me? That you’re going to break this off.”
“My mom died,” I snap, sitting up. “I’m not really thinking about anything else.” He shakes his head. “What aren’t you telling me? Why don’t you think I can handle it?
Haven’t I handled everything you’ve ever thrown at me?”
“Okay, fine.” I know I must sound angry, but I’m not. I’m tired. I’m tired of hiding things, tired of being what people want me to be in this moment, tired of being that girl whose mom has died and we better tiptoe around her. In some ways, Tucker talking to me this way is a relief. At least he’s not walking on eggshells anymore.
Tucker waits.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” he answers simply.
“All right. Let’s start here. I thought you were dying, for a while. I’ve been having visions of Aspen Hill Cemetery, everybody there because someone was dead, and you weren’t there. So I thought it was you. I didn’t want to tell you because, what if I was wrong, how would you feel about that, and it turned out I was wrong, so I’m glad I didn’t tell you.”
“But you told Christian,” he says.
“Yeah. He can see into my mind, so he knew.”
“Huh,” he says, but I can tell he’s very unhappy at the idea of Christian and I mind-melding.
“And I can read people’s feelings. Sometimes an image or a thought or two, but mostly feelings.”
It feels better, confessing. I feel something. “And there’s more, of course.” He blinks, startled. “Okay, shoot.”
Funny that he should phrase it that way, when what I say next is like a bullet, traveling at the speed of sound straight from my mouth to his heart. I don’t know why I do it. I only know that I don’t want any more pretense between us. It’s against my nature.
“My purpose isn’t over. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I know that it involves Christian. It’s like we’re meant to be two sides of the same coin. I don’t. . love him the way that I love you, but we’re the same, him and me. We make each other stronger.” Storm clouds in Tucker’s blue eyes. He stares at me. He doesn’t want to know this next part.
But I tell him anyway. Because part of me realizes that, as much as I love him, as much as I want to grab on to him now and never let him go, he’ll be better off without me, safer, away from my crazy world of rogue angels and mysterious duties that are going to pop up all my life, happier without me having to lie to him or withhold stuff from him for our entire relationship. I know that telling the truth right now, and especially this next part, will probably ruin things forever for us and as much as I don’t want that, I think it might be the only way to ensure that I don’t wimp out.
So here goes.
“I kissed Christian.” My voice breaks on his name. “Well, actually, he kissed me. But I let him. He said it was part of his purpose, and I let him. Because we’re connected. Because in my dream, when my mom dies, when we’re at the cemetery, it’s him who holds my hand and comforts me and supports me. Because you’re not there.”
Tucker’s expression has gone stony. The muscles in his back are tight. He flexes his jaw.
“When?” he asks huskily. “When did he. .”
“Two days before my mom died.”
He stands up. “I have to go.”
“Tuck.”
He closes his eyes. His fists clench by his sides, then release. When he opens his eyes again, I see a hint of tears. He lets out a ragged breath. “I have to go.” What have I done? I think dazedly. I follow him out of my bedroom, down the stairs. “I’m sorry, Tuck,” I say. Like that can fix anything.
My words don’t faze him. He blows right past the group of sympathizers in the living room, past Wendy and Angela, who are sitting together on the couch.
“Wendy, let’s go.”
She jumps up.
“Tuck,” I call again. But then I stop. I resolve to let him go, even if he never talks to me again. The ache in my chest doubles, makes me feel short of breath. I lean against the living room wall and watch Tucker helplessly as he nearly runs out of my house.
He stops at his car, fumbles in his pocket for keys. Wendy catches up to him, grabs his arm, says something, and flicks her head back to the house. He nods. Then he looks back and sees Christian standing on the front porch, and everything seems to slow down.
“You.” He shakes Wendy off and takes a few slow steps toward the house.
“Tucker,” Christian says quietly.
“What kind of person are you?” Tucker practically growls, advancing on him. He ignores Wendy as she pleads to go home
. “You wait until she’s at her most vulnerable and then you make your move?”
“Is that what she told you?” Christian asks, not in any threatening sort of way, but also not backing down one bit.
I want to get out there, stop this before someone gets hurt. I have the feeling that someone could really get hurt about now. But as I take a step toward the door, Angela grabs my arm.
“Don’t,” she says. “You’ll make it worse.”
“She told me you kissed her,” Tucker says.
“I did.”
“It doesn’t matter to you that she has a boyfriend? That she loves me?” Tucker is close to Christian now, climbing the steps to the porch. He stops a few feet in front of Christian and stands with his hands in fists, waiting for the excuse Christian is going to give him to hit him.
I can’t see Christian’s face from this angle. His back is turned to me. But somehow I know that his face is impassive, his eyes cool green emeralds that glitter unnaturally in the light.
There’s no warmth in him at all when he says, “I always liked you, Tucker. I think you’re a decent guy.”
Tucker laughs. “But what, I’m not worthy of her? She’s out of my league, just because—”
“She and I belong together,” Christian interrupts.
“Right. Because of your purpose,” Tucker says in a low voice.
Christian glances around, irritated that Tucker knows this word, that he would dare to say it here in front of all these people. “That and about a hundred other reasons, none of which you’d be capable of understanding,” he says.
“You smug bastard.” And that’s when Tucker punches him. Right in the face. Christian’s head snaps back and a river of blood instantly starts to stream from his nose. He wipes at it, looks at his blood-sullied fingers. It’s possible that he’s never seen his own blood before now. His eyes narrow. He wipes his hand on his jeans. Then the porch erupts in a flurry of motion, people scrambling to get out of the way, women shrieking, fists flying. I tear loose from Angela just in time to see Tucker push Christian back against the house wall so hard it cracks the glass in the front window. I watch Christian’s dark brows draw low over his eyes, a genuine fury rising there, about to be unleashed. He puts a hand in the middle of Tucker’s chest and sends him sprawling, striking the porch rail with a sickening crunch as he flies backward onto the driveway. Gravel scatters everywhere. Tucker springs to his feet, wiping a smear of blood off his chin, hair all disheveled, eyes blue fire.
“Come on, pretty boy,” he taunts. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“Stop!” I scream.
Christian jumps over the fractured porch railing so lightly he almost seems to float. Next to Tucker he has a slender grace, not the muscle from roping calves and working hard every day, not the grit of being a farm boy from Wyoming, but I know that he is incredibly strong.
Tucker swings at him, and Christian ducks away. He lands a punch to Tucker’s side that again sends him crashing back into the dirt. He grunts, straightens up to go at Christian again.
“Stop it!” I scream.
Neither of them pays any attention. Tucker feints another punch, then almost gets one into Christian’s gut, but one more time Christian moves away before the blow can land. Tucker makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat as Christian hits him again, this time in the jaw.
This isn’t fair. There’s no way for Tucker to win this fight. Christian will always be faster, and stronger, and harder to hurt.
Please, I send to Christian with all my power to speak in his mind turned up full blast. If you care for me at all, stop.
He hesitates.
I stumble down the porch stairs toward them. I’m not thinking anymore. I need to get myself between them. “Christian, don’t hurt him,” I say out loud.
This stops them both cold. Tucker gives me this incredulous, offended look. How could I think that he’d be beaten by this fancied-up city kid, no matter what kind of blood runs through his veins? His lip actually curls in disgust. You don’t believe in me, his eyes say. Why don’t you believe in me?
At the same time, Christian drops his fists, turns to look at me with a hurt expression.
I wasn’t going to hurt him, he says in my mind. You think I would use my powers to do that?
I don’t have an answer for either of them.
“Okay, that’s enough!” a voice rings out. Billy makes her way down the front steps. She walks up beside me and glares at Tucker and Christian.
“What are you two doing here acting like elk in rut? This is a time of mourning. You should be ashamed.”
“I’m going,” Tucker says. He doesn’t look at me again. He must be hurting all over, but he keeps his head high, his back straight, as he walks to his car. Over his shoulder Wendy shoots me a look that’s half murder, half apology. She gets in the driver’s seat. I can see her talking, possibly yelling at Tucker as they drive off.
Christian wipes blood off his face. His nose has stopped bleeding, but the blood’s still there.
“My uncle’s going to kill me,” he says.
“He can get in line,” I shoot back.
He looks at me, startled. Clara, I’m—
Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry. Just go.
I was only—
Go. I send again. I want you to go away, Christian. I don’t want you here. I don’t need you.
He swallows, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and looks at me hard. He doesn’t believe me.
“Get out of here,” I say out loud.
He turns and tromps off into the woods, where shadows are stretching out through the trees.
“Girl, you have a knack for drawing trouble,” Billy says, clapping an affectionate hand on my shoulder.
Don’t I know it.
After darkness falls the people all go home. The house gets brutally empty. Jeffrey comes home, from wherever it is that he disappears to every day, retreating into his room without a word to anyone. I go to the door of Mom’s office and push it open. Part of me expects her to be there, hunched over her computer, writing code. She’d look up and smile.
“Tough day, sweetie?” she’d say.
I swallow. I try to remind myself that she’s in heaven. But I can’t picture it. I can’t feel it.
All I know is that she’s gone, and she’s never coming back.
That night I can’t sleep. I’m not even sure I want to. I stare up at the ceiling and watch the shadows flit across it, the outlines of leaves from the tree outside my window, moving back and forth.
Around midnight, the phone starts ringing. I wait for someone to answer it, but no one does. Where is Billy? I wonder. When will Dad come back?
The phone keeps ringing its lonely song. I pad sock-foot into the kitchen, take it out of its cradle, and look at the caller ID.
CLARA, it reads.
Huh?
I’m getting a call from my own phone.
I click TALK. I’m suddenly wide awake. “Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?” I say after a few seconds of nothing on the other line.
“Hello, little bird.”
It’s such a strange thing, hearing Samjeeza’s voice without the accompanying sorrow.
Almost like talking to a normal person, having an ordinary conversation where I don’t have to fear for my life or wonder if I’m about to be dragged to hell. Strange, like I said.
“What do you want?” I ask him.
Silence.
“Well, it’s been nice talking to you, but I’ve got to go. . ” I start to lay the phone back down. “I have to bury my mother in the morning.”
“What?” he says, sounding truly shocked.
He doesn’t know.
“Please,” he says after a minute, real desperation in his voice. “What happened?”
“You knew about the one-hundred-and-twenty-years rule, didn’t you?” He hisses out a breath. “Is that how old she was? I knew she was nearing that, but. . it’s
hard for me to keep track of human time. When?”
“Three days ago.” I feel a flash of anger, which actually feels good. Any emotion besides crushing sadness feels good at this point. “So now you won’t ever be able to hurt her again.” Again, there’s silence. I think he might have hung up. But then he says, “I didn’t feel her pass. I should have felt it.”
“Maybe you weren’t as connected as you thought you were.”