The Untimely Deaths Of Alex Wayfare
M.G. Buehrlen
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2016 by M.G. Buehrlen
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition April 2016
ISBN: 978-1-68230-057-2
Also by M.G. Buehrlen
The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare
For Hay, who can always find the crocuses in the snow.
Another Disclaimer
Some stories are about a boy. A second glance, a teasing smile, the promise of a kiss before you turn the last page. Love pursued and gained, the peaks and valleys and never-ending tension that lead two people from First Sight to Ever After.
Some stories are like that.
Not this story.
This story is about death. Two kinds. The tiny deaths, like finding out all the bright, diamond-cut things you thought you knew about your life were a lie. The light they used to shine on your path has gone dark, leaving you lost. And the big death, the one that looks like a polished, gleaming gun barrel pointed between your eyes. The one that says: You don’t have much time left.
I don’t know when the gun will fire, or when Death will take my hand. I don’t know how many days I have left to make everything right again. All I know is that I have to do something good while I still have breath. Something that makes a difference. Something that makes my fifty-seventh life worthwhile.
So even though some of this story is about a boy, his glances, his smiles, his arms around me and a dance beneath stardust, it doesn’t end with him. It doesn’t end with a happily-ever-after kiss on his lips. No forever and always. No happy ending.
And I thought it would.
Oh, how I thought it would.
Chapter 1
Up in the Air
I’m standing at the edge of the world.
The last time I was in Chicago, staring out across Lake Michigan, Blue had his arm around me, and I was struck by the vastness of the water. We stood on a concrete pier, the waves lapping beneath our feet, the glittering lights of the Roaring Twenties at our backs.
This time it’s not as magical. This time, I’m standing at the edge of the world and there’s no one beside me.
Well, no one with blue-green eyes that haunt my dreams at night.
The Signature Room is a posh restaurant on the ninety-fifth floor of the John Hancock building, the kind where a burger costs thirty bucks and comes with snobby-sounding ingredients like brioche and aioli and chipotle. But the room is gorgeous, so maybe you’re paying for the atmosphere. Floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows surround the entire restaurant, overlooking the lake on one side and the city on the other. If you stand close enough to the windows, so close your breath fogs the pane, you can trick yourself into believing you’re hovering over the city, and one step forward could send you tumbling down, down to the busy, snowy streets below.
I’m not looking down, though. I’m looking out, where sky meets water. Right now it’s midday. The waves are ruffling lazily toward the shore. The pale blue of the sky, of the water, makes it almost impossible to look away. On the horizon, the faintest pink mingles between them. No wonder Monet spent his life trying to capture the way light glints off water. How it plays with color and shadow, so pale yet so vivid at the same time. You feel like you could walk across, clear to the horizon.
It’s too bright, though, too cheery, for how I’m feeling at the moment.
It’s been three days since I landed at Chicago’s Midway airport with Porter waiting for me at the baggage claim. If it weren’t for him I wouldn’t be here now, on New Year’s Eve, so close to finding Blue in Base Life. If it weren’t for Porter, I wouldn’t have known about the 3D bioprinting workshop offered at AIDA’s Chicago branch for students interested in biomedical engineering. I definitely wouldn’t have gotten selected to attend, since my application was submitted way after the deadline, and I certainly wouldn’t have received a full scholarship for the travel and hotel expenses. That was all Porter’s doing. I’m not exactly sure how he did it. I’m not exactly sure I want to know.
I learned seconds after meeting him that Porter makes things happen. He weaves reality to suit his needs. He plays by rules I don’t completely understand. And somewhere along the line, I realized I didn’t need to know the gritty details. I’m good with blindly reaping the rewards, especially this one, this trip to Chicago so we can find Blue.
For the past three days I’ve been up to my ears in biomedical geekery, sitting in on lectures and exploring labs, poking a finger into the fleshy, 3D-bioprinted human tissue created by some of AIDA’s top engineers, surrounded by a group of awkward, nerdy kids like me who plan on making a difference in the world. I must admit, it feels good being immersed in normalcy for once. Discussing college plans like I’m any other kid headed off to school with grand, and probably foolish, ideas in my head.
Of course, none of the other kids realize I’m not going to college, not really, that I’ve seen too many things, know too many secrets, to ever walk down a normal college-to-career path. I’m a Descender, a protector of the past, present, and future. That’s my job, now and forever. College used to be my own Monet painting, a pale yet vivid smudge of color on my horizon, back before I met Porter and he upended my world, pulling the shade down on that shining future and turning my eyes in the opposite direction. Showing me how to navigate the Black instead of the Light.
I used to spend hours lying on my bed longing for my future college days, flipping through brochures and picturing myself on those bright, happy campuses with fellow bright, happy students, hoping by the time I graduated I’d have my life figured out. I’d have my visions fixed and I could focus on real, everyday life. But that never happened. My visions, which I once believed were a burden, became my lifeblood. The reason I get up in the morning. They’ve given me a different purpose. And I’m OK with it. Because I get to travel back in time. Because I get to see things no one else gets to see, touch them, taste them, feel them brush against my bare skin. Because I get to see Blue. Because I’m going to bring Gesh to his knees and make him pay for all the atrocities he’s committed against this unsuspecting world.
All those he’s committed against me.
And even though this student workshop won’t amount to anything on my nonexistent college applications, I’m learning a lot. I have renewed faith in humanity and all the ways we dedicate our lives to healing the sick. I’ve had an amazing time, and all I have to do is try not to screw it up for the other students. Make sure I don’t create any more Variants, so their futures remain bright and golden and they can eventually touch those dreams waiting for them out there, on their own horizons.
This morning was the last lecture of the workshop. Then our hosts brought us here, to the Signature Room, for lunch. After this, they’re taking us on a tour of the city and later tonight, we’re all watching the New Year’s Eve fireworks from Buckingham Fountain. Another one of Porter’s arrangements, I’m sure. Placing me right where I need to be, at the exact right moment.
It’s all too perfect.
Which mean
s something’s bound to go wrong. Isn’t that the way of it?
One of the workshop hosts steps up to me beside the window. “You OK, Alex? You haven’t touched your lunch.”
Her name is Dr. Micki Shah, and she seems pretty cool so far. She told us her family is from Dubai, but she was born and raised in Detroit, and she studied at Johns Hopkins, where I wanted to go, once upon a time. She’s the youngest—and by far the least stuffy—of our hosts, and I like her, I think, although I haven’t quite figured her out. While the other workshop hosts wear boring clothes in bland colors and sensible shoes, and don’t seem to care that their hair is going gray (or receding), Micki wears heels, always heels. Clop, clop, clop. God, her feet must hurt. She wears her black hair in a sleek ponytail. Her eyes are smoky and dark, her lips and fingernails painted bright red. She dresses in trendy styles and leather jackets. She looks like she belongs at a swanky club, not a biomedical lab, even with a white lab coat draped over her chambray shirt and black skinny jeans. She looks so out of place that it’s hard not to pay attention to her. And I can’t figure out if that’s her game, if she wants to be noticed, or if that’s just who she is and I’m simply in awe, like I’ve discovered a rare species in the wild. There’s nothing wrong with a girl who’s passionate about the latest fashions and engineering. I’ve just never met one in real life.
I kind of admire her for it.
“Not that hungry,” I say with a shrug. Which is true. How can I eat when my stomach is tangled and twisted in knots? When I can’t concentrate on anything or anyone other than Blue? Anything other than our fountain, and our cold hands kept warm with entwined fingers. “I’ve felt kind of out of it all day.”
“Sick?” She cocks her head to the side, and I can see her mind whirring as she tries to diagnose me with her dark eyes. “Want to go back to the hotel for the night?”
“No,” I say, almost too quickly, too loudly. “I feel fine. I want to stay with you guys.”
Dr. Shah quirks a sharply tweezed eyebrow at me. “You tell me if you think you’re gonna barf, OK?”
I laugh. “You’ll be the first to know. Promise.”
The Fountain
Hours later, deep into the evening, I’m standing at the edge of Grant Park, my fellow workshop mates around me, the bus we took to get here pulling away from the curb. I turn and watch it go with my hands in the pockets of my army-green parka, swallowed in a gust of exhaust. The last time I was here it was 1927, and Blue stood in the exact same spot, hands in his own pockets, watching me drive away in a yellow cab. I have no idea what happened to him after that, not until I pulled him from his home in Base Life (wherever that may be) to Cincinnati in 1961, then to Missouri in 1876, and then to AIDA Headquarters in our most recent past lives. I have no idea what he’s been doing since he died in my arms outside Washington, DC, my last words begging him to meet me here.
Now.
Under a clear, frigid sky, beneath clear, frigid stars.
I square my shoulders toward the fountain and the lakeshore, biting my bottom lip, and scan the park for any sign of him. Buckingham Fountain is cold and dry, shut off for the season but covered in elegant strands of glittering holiday lights. More lights are strung up around the plaza, bathing the park in an orange glow. A crowd has gathered for the fireworks, even though they won’t start for another hour.
With a deep breath, I make my way to the fountain. The rest of my group follows aimlessly, then disperses, blending in with the crowd. My winter boots crunch across pink gravel and pull me to the spot where Blue and I first kissed. Where he gave me a penny and told me to make a wish. Where he took my face in his hands and stole my breath away.
Everything looks the same.
Everything looks different.
The fountain seems larger than I remember, but it still looks like a fat wedding cake. The strands of twinkling lights are draped on each layer like icing. It doesn’t feel as magical without the water shooting toward the clouds. The massive, gleaming copper seahorses stationed at the four corners have turned green from oxidization since the last time I saw them, but the wide, smooth pool stretching out at my feet remains the same. I wonder if our wishes still lie at the bottom.
Blue wished for a kiss. I wished to see him again. Both of our wishes came true.
I pull a penny from my pocket, one I brought along for this occasion. A 1927 Lincoln wheat penny I found by sifting through Pops’s penny jug. It took me an hour to find the right year. I wasn’t about to use any old penny. Not for this.
I close my eyes, make the same wish I made back then, and press the coin to my lips. It arcs through the air and slips beneath the icy water, sealing my fate for the evening.
I hope.
My heart warms as I run my gloved fingers along the railing Blue and I climbed over. After I make a complete turn around the fountain, the crowd in the plaza has doubled in size, full of red noses and thick with winter coats. People pose for photos in front of the fountain. The twinkle lights reflect off the glassy pool. The more crowded it gets, the more I wonder how Blue and I will find each other. Maybe meeting on New Year’s Eve in a huge city wasn’t the smartest of plans.
I move through the winter coats, locking eyes with each person. I bounce on the balls of my feet. I breathe warm air into cupped hands. I nestle my chin down into the warmth of Gran’s scarf bundled around my neck.
Waiting.
“Coffee?” Dr. Shah stands behind me, holding two paper cups in her leather-gloved hands. The twinkle lights glitter in her dark eyes. “I spied you sipping some yesterday, so I know you’re a fellow coffee-holic.”
I grin and take one of the cups. “Definitely. Thank you, Dr. Shah.”
“Oh, please. We’re done with workshops now. Call me Micki.”
“OK. Micki.”
“Why are you hanging out over here all alone? Haven’t you made friends with anyone in the group?”
I shrug and take a sip, let the heat warm me from the inside out. “I’m not very good at making friends.”
“I’m not an expert, but talking to them usually helps.”
I glance over at a few of the kids from the workshop. The boys are laughing and horsing around, running and sliding in the gravel. The girls are watching, huddled together and giggling.
It’s just not my scene. “I’m good by myself.”
“Riiiiight.” She hunches her shoulders against the cold. “I’ll be over there on that bench if you need me.”
I nod, then turn back to cataloging the faces around me. The later it gets, the more anxious I become. I sip my coffee with trembling hands, too nervous to gulp, even though gulping would help warm my bones. My stomach turns and turns, and every guy who walks by resembling Blue’s familiar shape has it turning yet again. I look for his gait. The slope of his shoulders beneath a wool coat.
And I wait.
What will he look like this time? If he even shows at all? Tall, handsome, and fit like in 1927? Will he wear his dark hair short, with no hat to ward off the cold? Or will he be tan and lean, with hair down to his jaw like in 1876? With a hat casting a shadow over his eyes?
Will I still find him attractive?
Would that even matter?
Will he recognize me in this body? My long, straight, dusky blond hair parted in the middle and spilling over my shoulders? My gray eyes behind the fake black-rimmed glasses Porter gave me? My button nose? My freckles? Blue’s never seen me like this. Will he like what he sees? Will he still want to kiss me?
As the clock ticks closer to midnight with no sign of him, doubts roll in my chest. They tumble against my ribcage—thump, thump. He doesn’t remember you. Why would he remember you? No one remembers you.
It’s the usual reel of self-fueled vitriol I have running on repeat in the back of my mind, but a text from Dad helps silence it for a moment. He asks if I’m having fun and sends me a photo of the corned beef and cabbage Pops makes every New Year’s, a tradition from his childhood in Ireland. Then Dad sends
a photo of the whole family gathered around the table. Gran’s arm is around Mom and they’re both laughing so hard that their eyes are closed. Pops is piling a mound of mashed potatoes on my youngest sister Claire’s plate, and Afton, our tiny black cat, is curled on her lap. My other sister, Audrey, isn’t in the shot, which means she must not be feeling strong enough to join in with the festivities. A pretty common occurrence, unfortunately. I reply by shooting Dad a picture of the fountain and its glittering lights. We wish each other a happy new year. I tell him I’m having fun and really liked the workshop this morning.
All truth, which is a rarity. My replies to him usually contain plenty of lies sprinkled throughout. My whole life is made up of lies now. I wear them like scarves and hats and little flowers in my hair.
But then again, doesn’t everyone?
I shoot a text to Audrey with the same photo. She usually responds right away, but this time she doesn’t. Not even the quick NPILT (Not Participating in Life Today) she uses when she’s too sick to chat but wants me to know she’s OK. For a split second I imagine my worst fear coming true, that she’s at the hospital, that the damn cancer finally had the last word, and I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I immediately start hating myself for coming to see Blue when I should be spending time with her.
Before it’s too late.
But then I realize Dad wouldn’t be texting me photos of himself chowing down on corned beef and cabbage if Audrey were in trouble. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
My phone buzzes again, but it’s not from Audrey. It’s a text from Jensen. Ever since he insisted we were friends a few months back, a day hasn’t gone by without a text from him.
hws yr trip?
I smile to myself at his relentless use of text speak and send him a picture of my coffee in my gloved hand. It’s goin. But it’s soooo coooold. Good coffee tho. :)
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