by C. J. Valles
“I’m going to take your car to go grocery shopping, all right?” she says, frowning when her mother sits up with a fretful expression.
Wren envisions a car accident, her aging vehicle crumpling the front bumper of a mid-sized pickup truck. She is correct in assuming that her mother is remembering the same event.
“Just be careful,” Caroline Sullivan says. “It’s raining.”
Wren smiles patiently.
“I will. Do you have cash?”
As she walks downstairs to retrieve her jacket and shoes, I contemplate that I have never seen this girl behind the wheel of a vehicle of any kind. This thought affords me a good deal of apprehension, though I highly doubt she could be a less attentive driver than her friend Ashley Stewart.
Stepping into her mother’s coupe, she inhales deeply, taking the time to acclimate herself to sitting in the driver’s seat. As she turns the key in the ignition, she thinks of her former vehicle, a red Mustang with a number of dents and a large patch of missing paint on the lower left corner of the back bumper. As she shifts into reverse, I realize she is more adept at driving a manual transmission vehicle than most of her peers, but that gives me little peace of mind when she reaches the street and the rear tires of the vehicle spin. She grips the steering wheel before letting the car correct itself. I feel my jaw clench as I follow a good distance behind her, watching as the rear end of the car swerves each time she presses the accelerator.
The closest shopping center is less than two miles from her house, and I relax as she pulls into the parking lot and parks the car, gingerly releasing her grip on the steering wheel before shaking her head ruefully as she imagines the serpentine turns of her hometown. Stepping from the car, she forgets to turn off the car’s headlights as she hurries toward the store. I park on the other side of the parking lot and watch as she jogs across the lot toward the store with a quick look around at the various businesses within the shopping center.
A bar, a tattoo parlor, tanning salon, and fast food—nice, she thinks.
After walking through the store a total of three times, she abandons her effort to retrieve every item on her list and makes her way toward the front of the store. Stepping into the only open checkout line, she begins setting out her items, glancing warily at the man in line ahead of her as he waits for the cashier to retrieve a pack of cigarettes from the locked case. The smell of tobacco wafting from his clothes and skin causes her nose to crinkle, and I notice her movements are careful as she tries not to draw his attention. When she turns away to retrieve additional items from her cart, he looks over his shoulder and grins at the sight of her.
I quickly scan his thoughts. He is exactly the type of mind the other side would use. Not for permanent position—his mind is not resilient enough—but even if something were to take possession of him for only a few brief moments, they could do enough damage.
The cashier returns with the cigarettes, and he pays, looking back over his shoulder once as he leaves. I watch as he leans against the cement exterior of the store and waits. When Wren appears a moment later, the man leers and exhales a curl of smoke.
She pushes the cart faster, reaching into her pocket for her mother’s car keys, unaware that the car’s battery died twenty minutes ago. Frowning when the remote fails, she presses the button again without luck.
“Are you serious?” she grumbles as she uses the key to open the trunk.
She loads the groceries into the trunk before walking quickly to the driver’s side and unlocking the door. Sitting down, she closes the door after her and places the key in the ignition before rubbing her hands together. When she turns the key in the ignition, the starter to screeches in protest. Jumping in surprise, she winces as the engine sputters and then falls silent.
One, two, three, four … she counts silently before turning the key again.
She studies the dashboard briefly before lifting her hand and slapping her forehead with the heel of her hand. When she leans her head forward and rests it on the steering wheel, I cannot help smiling. She is in the middle of debating the financial implications of calling a towing service when she reaches for her mobile phone and finds it missing.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding,” she mutters caustically.
She pauses and then reaches for the hood release. When she steps from the car, searching for some way out of her predicament, she sees the man from the grocery store. A simple check of public records has told me all I need to know. A recidivist methamphetamine addict with several arrests on his record, he also has served a briefer than necessary prison sentence for crimes against a girl not much older than Wren. When he drops his cigarette and crushes it under his boot, she hides behind hood and hopes for him to pass by, but I know better.
Shifting to a utility van several spaces away from her mother’s car, I begin walking toward Wren as she leans over the front of the car.
“Would you mind if I have a look?” I ask from a few feet behind her.
Gasping, she spins around, landing unceremoniously on the car’s front bumper while clutching her chest.
“You almost gave me a heart attack,” she accuses, staring me up and down as I approach.
This so can’t be real. I’m hallucinating, she thinks.
“You’re young. I think you’ll live.”
I make an effort to keep the smile from my features as she glares at me.
“Thanks for the health update, doctor,” she snaps.
When I point to the engine, she steps back, which gives her time to notice that the man from the store is retreating. Her breathing begins to even out as I touch my hand to the car battery, instantly charging it.
“Try the engine, please.”
She looks back at me in surprise.
“Really?”
Nodding, I give her a mildly exasperated look before she reluctantly returns to the driver’s seat and turns the key in the ignition. As soon as the engine turns over, I shut the hood. She steps out of the driver’s seat with an expression of gratitude and reverence.
“How did you do that? I mean, the battery—”
My features harden. It is best if I douse any warmth she feels toward me.
“Your spark plugs were loose. You should have the car serviced more often.”
“It’s my mom’s car,” she says defensively.
Nice, Wren. You sound like a petulant little kid, she scolds herself.
I remain quiet, allowing the silence to draw out until she is utterly discomfited. If I admit it to myself, these moments also allow me the opportunity to observe her. Her pink lips have parted in frustration, and her dark hair is clinging to the sides of her face as the rain drenches her.
He’s strange, but definitely not detached from reality. Maybe not interested in it—or me, she contemplates.
Abruptly she remembers the man who had been moments from approaching her when I appeared. She smiles crookedly, feeling another swell of gratitude.
“Well, thanks for—”
Raising my eyebrow, I lift my hand and gesture with my fingers for her to take her leave. She frowns.
Who does that? she thinks acerbically.
I hold out my hand, waiting as she steps into the driver’s seat again. Her eyes stinging with embarrassment, she puts the car in reverse and backs out. I smile as she contemplates putting the car in neutral and revving the engine in an attempt to startle me.
Walking behind the utility van, I shift to my car at the other end of the parking lot and pull out, following a discreet distance behind her mother’s car before parking a block away from her house. As the rain picks up, tapping on the roof of the vehicle, I think of the last time loop I witnessed. In my mind, I flesh out the details. The intersection I saw was mere steps from the store she was just in. The sky was dark, but it was not night.
If I do nothing, she will be struck and, to those around her, will appear comatose while in the depths of her mind she will make a choice. Cease to exist, or become one of Victor’s
growing army of possessed humans. Her fate, however, would be infinitely worse. As the last, she would harbor powers greater than we have witnessed, and as a result, would be deemed worthy to serve as the vessel for Victor’s princess, the one whom he turned mad out of spite. In taking his vengeance upon her, Victor ultimately made the princess’s capacity for cruelty as limitless as his own.
I know Wren Sullivan is not helpless. She possesses potential—and it is her potential that makes her both a risk and an asset. Audra would kill her now and eliminate the threat. It no longer remains as simple for me. What if, by destroying her, I also destroy the one chance at happiness—if it truly exists?
A block away, Wren is unpacking groceries, unconsciously scowling at the upbeat, bland music station her mother has selected. As Wren begins—cautiously—to question her mother about the state of her vehicle’s maintenance, I find myself curious as to how she will describe me, if she does at all.
“It’s running all right, isn’t it?” her mother asks, unworried.
Wren frowns, trying to find an innocent reason to prompt her mother to have the vehicle maintained.
“The spark plugs were loose,” she says lightly.
The expression on Caroline Sullivan’s face at her daughter’s statement is quite amusing.
“How do you know?”
Wren looks away, shrugging.
“It wouldn’t start when I left the store.”
“Honey! Why didn’t you call me?”
Wren laughs and looks uncomfortable.
“I had the car, remember? What were you going to do—teleport? Besides, I forgot my phone, and I kind of ran into a guy from school. And he ...” She trails off, abruptly remembering the dead headlights. “… fixed it.”
Why did he help me? she wonders, her frown deepening. That’s the question.
“And this guy just happened to be hanging out at the grocery store on a Saturday morning?” Caroline Sullivan asks, her suspicion piqued.
Wren shrugs even as she puzzles over the same question.
“Yeah, I guess. But he said the car needed to be looked at.”
“How do you know this boy?” her mother asks.
Wren walks across the kitchen to the refrigerator and begins retrieving food for lunch.
“I don’t, really. … You want some?” she asks.
Her words cause a strange sensation in my chest. I don’t really. This girl knows nothing of me, and yet here I am—my entire existence invested in her welfare. Her teeth have begun chattering, and finally she looks down and sees that her clothing is soaked. Leaving her food on the countertop, she begins walking toward the stairs.
“I’m going to change. I’ll be down in a few minutes,” she calls to her mother as she passes through the small living room.
When she reaches her bedroom and begins collecting clothing to change into, I realize that I was going to—quite willingly—follow her into the bathroom. The concept of privacy—at least as far as humans are concerned—is a relatively new one. Certainly the mandate for clothing is one that does not pertain to all cultures, and we have long witnessed humans in all states of being, dressed and undressed. Now, though, I feel my seeing this girl in any state of undress would be prurience of the utmost degree, for one reason and that reason alone.
What I feel for her has crossed the boundary of mere curiosity or the necessity of protecting her from Victor’s maleficence.
My desire for her, multifaceted though it may be, is unquestionably tinged by a hunger I must keep at bay. She is too young, and I have no right to infringe upon her privacy or her innocence. Reaction formation, though it may be, I will satisfy myself by protecting her from those, human and beyond, who would harm her—those who neither retain, nor care to retain, any sense of forbearance or conscience.
When she returns downstairs, her cheeks are pink from the hot water and her demeanor is relaxed, which will not last long. Her father is preparing to call her. In fact, she has just taken a bite of food at the moment the phone rings. Wren watches as her mother leaps up to answer it. Caroline Sullivan’s expression changes instantaneously when she recognizes her ex-husband’s phone number on the screen, and she holds out the phone to Wren, whose face pales. She stares plaintively at her mother.
“Forget it, Wren. I’m not running interference on this one,” her mother says.
Wren waits through another two rings before walking in defeat toward her bedroom. Inhaling, she finally answers.
“Hi, Thomas.”
I watch Thomas Sullivan, sitting poolside at his house a few miles from the beach with The New York Times crossword puzzle spread out before him.
“Caroline?” he asks uneasily.
Wren sighs.
“No, Dad. It’s me.”
Thomas Sullivan clears his throat, relieved to avoid a conversation with his ex-wife. Still, he has little idea of how to address the offspring he all but abandoned.
“You sound just like your mother,” he chuckles to hide his embarrassment.
Wren takes another heavy breath and sits down on the edge of her bed.
“So, how’s Oregon, Wrennie?”
Seriously, Dad? she thinks, wincing at her father’s unflattering diminutive of her given name.
“It’s great. Love it,” she says blandly.
She keeps him on his toes, as humans refer to it, until he finally gives the phone to his current wife. Wren’s posture changes, her shoulders hunching forward as her breath leaves her. She clenches her teeth.
“Hey, Wren. It’s Jess. How are you?”
The patronizing, faux affection in the woman’s tone grates on me.
“Great,” Wren manages with barely any volume.
“Well, Tom and I were wondering if you’d like to come down to meet your baby brother over spring break.”
Wren’s vision begins to spin, and I wait for her to begin breathing again.
“I …”
“No rush! We’ll pay for your ticket. Let us know.”
“Wrennie, the weather’s great down here,” her father says. “You’ll love Laguna.”
Yeah, I’ve been there, but of course he doesn’t remember that, she thinks before hearing the sound of a baby crying in the background.
“All right, we’ll talk to you soon,” Thomas Sullivan says quickly.
“’Bye,” she whispers after he has already ended the call.
The phone drops from her hand, and for several seconds her thoughts stream so chaotically that I nearly lose sight of her mind altogether. I wait impatiently for her mother to fetch her. When the woman finally walks up the stairs and knocks at her daughter’s door, Wren flinches.
“Wren, are you going to finish lunch?”
“Yeah! I’m coming!”
Wren stands and shakes her head.
Not hungry any more, but might as well pretend, she thinks despondently. Wish he would stop calling. Why bother?
She stops and looks into the mirror hanging from her closet door, and I stare at her reflection through her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes a bright, dragon green. Sighing again, she walks over and opens her door. When she reaches the living room, her mother waves her arms with flourish.
“Ta-da!” Caroline Sullivan says brightly.
Wren smiles.
“It looks great, Mom. You missed your calling in interior design.”
Wren begins walking again, and when she reaches the kitchen, she picks up the plate of lukewarm food and frowns before taking it over to the trashcan and discarding it. Pouring herself a glass of water from the pitcher in the refrigerator, she walks over to the kitchen window and stares out at the rain. She wishes briefly for a walk before cleaning her dishes and leaving the kitchen.
“Honey? You want to go into downtown? We can stop at the mall,” her mother says, trying to entice her.
Wren shakes her head.
“Thanks, but I should finish my homework.”
Caroline Sullivan pauses, debating the wisdom of discussin
g her ex-husband with her daughter.
“You want to talk about it?” she asks tentatively.
Wren shakes her head again.
“All right. I’m gonna leave in a few minutes. Let me know if you change your mind.”
Wren nods and begins walking toward the stairs. Reaching her bedroom, she turns on the computer and smiles crookedly as she realizes that her father’s intrusion momentarily distracted her from me. She compares being upset over her father’s emotional abandonment to being consumed by thoughts of someone she barely knows. Smiling wryly, she decides that thinking about me is the healthier option.
A rush of adrenaline floods her bloodstream as she types my name into her Internet browser. She frowns in disappointment at the results of her search, but feels another surge of excitement as she types the word autism into her browser. She opens a Web site and scans the information with increasing sadness.
Problems developing nonverbal communication skills, such as eye contact
Failure to establish friendships with children the same age
Lack of interest in sharing enjoyment, interests, or achievements with other people
Lack of empathy
She envisions me sitting in class, not talking to anyone, rarely interacting with anyone … except for her. That is the point she fails to accept—that my unwavering and undivided attention is fixated upon her.
She shakes her head and unzips her bag, reaching for her mathematics textbook with a sigh. A monster is watching her every breath, and she has no idea.
When day turns to night, I cannot resist. As she sleeps, I shift to the foot of her bed and stare down at her sleeping form. I cannot say what I hope for. Do I wish for her to awaken and see me here staring down at her? I remain perfectly still, watching her until the weak light of dawn begins to filter through the clouds.
5: The Gathering
Wren Sullivan’s excitement is infectious as she awaits my arrival to Gideon’s classroom on Monday morning.