Scintillate

by Tracy Clark

  Finn smirked. I spun and tramped down the path, feeling noticeably colder with every step away from him. I heard his footsteps jog up behind me. “Cora, wait.” His words bubbled with laughter. He slipped his arm around my waist.

  “You’re laughing at me!” I tried to slip from his grasp, though I didn’t actually want to.

  “No. No, I’m not laughing at you.” His face turned serious and his voice soft. “If that’s how it’s supposed to be, Cora, then I’ve never had a true kiss before today.”

  I peered into his eyes, seeking the lie, but found only sincerity.

  “This is strange for me, to be so drawn to someone.” His brown eyes looked startled when he said that. “You affect me, warm me.” His fingers touched my cheek. “I don’t know of anyone who could feel this and not want more of it.”

  I sighed, agreeing completely. It was strange to be so drawn to each other. The sudden intensity of our attraction and connection was inexplicable, but I couldn’t deny it was there. I’d be the last to demand that everything make perfect sense. So much of my life, lately, didn’t. “You’re only here temporarily, right? Are we stupid to get involved, knowing that?”

  “Choices, luv. We either regret the experiences we have, or the ones we were too scared to have.”

  How could I argue with that? My entire life had been ruled by stop signs. My father didn’t trust me to make my own decisions about dating, but wasn’t it time I trusted myself?

  My fingers wound over his warm hand on my cheek. He kissed my forehead and sealed an internal truce within me. I’d choose the experience. I’d allow myself to have this, which I thought was a colossal act of bravery on my part.

  Finn was the first thing I’d ever done just for me.

  “C’mon,” I murmured, ducking under the split-rail fence intended to keep people from treading on the delicate ecosystem of the redwood forest. “We’re out of bounds, so be careful and step exactly where I do, okay?”

  “Out of bounds? Are you a closet rebel, Cora?”

  I looked back at him conspiratorially. “I got permission from the park to break this one rule. I told them I was doing a story for school.” I led him through the forest undergrowth, around large sword ferns, wild ginger, and redwood sorrel that looked like clover on steroids. “But my dad has lots of rules. No dating is the new one on his list.”

  Finn gave me a deep, inquiring look.

  “My dad is overprotective. That’s the short answer.”

  “And the longer, more interesting story is?”

  I nudged his rib. “My mother abandoned us when I was five. I think it made him scared I’d disappear on him, too. Sometimes I want to be mad at him because he doesn’t trust me. Won’t give me the freedom to, I don’t know, even try to blow it. But mostly I feel bad for him because he lives so fearfully. I don’t want to go through life being so afraid of losing things that I never allow myself to enjoy them.”

  “So, there’s your fear again.”

  “Yes. I guess. But look how great I am at ignoring my fear today.” I bit my lip, quelling the unexpected emotions. I hadn’t realized how heavily my father’s sheltering weighed on me. It was like he trained me to be afraid.

  “We have something in common,” Finn said. “When I said I couldn’t date you, it wasn’t some load of tripe. My parents are bloody overprotective as well. Makes no sense to me, but there you have it. Sometimes, I wish I had some brothers or sisters just to take the focus off me, you know?”

  “I do know. I’m an only child, too. It’s unnatural to be the sun that your parents revolve around. Well, parent.” I couldn’t believe how easy it was to open up to him.

  “What was it you wanted to show me? I can’t wait to see why we’re fence-hopping in a state park.”

  A few feet away, sprouting from the base of a redwood, was the awesome secret I wanted to share with him. “It’s an albino redwood.” I pointed to a pure white tree in front of us. “It’s extremely special and rare. Some people say there are fewer than thirty albinos in the entire world.”

  Finn reached toward it, but I stopped his hand. “They call them ‘the ghosts of the forest.’ I wanted to show you because you spoke about the ghosts inside us.”

  “What makes them this way?” he asked, staring at the milky-white stems and needles. Surrounded by the world of green, the plant looked like a phantom. Eerie and beautiful. A cloud at eye level.

  “Albinos are offshoots of the larger tree, the same in their essential genetics, but no one knows why they’re pure white,” I answered.

  Just like I don’t know why I’m different.

  I wondered: were some people made with pure white auras the way I was made pure silver? A mutation from what’s normal? I suddenly wanted very badly to talk about it. I even opened my mouth to begin, but I couldn’t admit how abnormal I was. I didn’t want to scare away the most sweet, the most normal thing in my life.

  Faye had said, It’s a risk you shouldn’t take. No matter how much you trust them…

  We reached the fence and ducked back under, walking out of the grove hand in hand, both of us lost in thought. It was quiet, with only the sounds of birds, the gentle hum of insects, and the occasional plod of a runner jogging past.

  Above the San Lorenzo River, we ate the sandwiches I brought while I told Finn how I liked to come here during rainstorms because I had the park to myself. My own private Eden. He told me about his Eden—the eastern coast of Ireland—and I listened raptly. He loved to sail and talked about his boat like it was a lover. I learned his father was an army medic and gone most of the time. His mother, also a doctor, worked in a large hospital in Dublin. He planned to attend Trinity College in the fall. His parents expected him to go into medicine. “It’s the family occupation, but I want no part of it,” he confessed. “Music is my passion. To them, it’s just a hobby. To me, it’s air.”

  We stopped talking and sat side by side, our shoulders touching, and watched the sun set through the giant trees. I gave him a chocolate-dipped strawberry. He gave me a kiss that tasted like spring.

  Ten

  W

  hat on earth was a caper? It didn’t even sound like food. I wheeled my cart through the grocery store, searching. How can one mystery ingredient be so vital? The answer: it’s a vital ingredient when Janelle is cooking Dad’s favorite empanadas and a Chilean summer stew to make up after their fight about me when I returned from the state park. She insisted if he continued to smother me, I was likely to rebel. He insisted he’d been taking care of me fine all these years without anyone’s help and would protect me as he saw fit.

  It was uncomfortably quiet in the house after that, so I offered to get the groceries. Tired of wandering the aisles, I decided to cut to the chase and ask old Mrs. Oberman where I might find the mysterious ingredient. If they sold it, she’d direct me to it.

  Mrs. Oberman shuffled toward me as I neared. Her movements were sluggish, but her smile wasn’t. “Cora, honey! How are you?” Her body looked so feeble, I worried I’d see something off about her colors, then found myself wondering if old people’s auras differed from ours, like a light on a dimmer switch, or do they stay bold and bright until the day we die?

  Her aura blared at full blast, her light brilliant as a baby’s, tinged with the soft blue, green, and pink glow of an early morning in the forest. I sighed, relieved. We exchanged pleasantries, and she directed me to the elusive caper. When I passed her again a few minutes later, I started to call out to thank her, but my words caught in my throat. The man who made me feel cold, like my blood pooled at my feet when he was near, was casually talking to her. I hid behind the end cap of the aisle. One part of my brain, the one that obviously controlled adrenaline, screamed at me to run. Another part encouraged me to hide and watch to see if I could learn anything about him, and to see how other, non-silver people’s auras responded to him.

  I peeked around the corner.

  Mrs. Oberman peered up at him like a frightened child. There was so
mething chilling about the way her hand grasped his arm, as if for stability. His satisfied smile sent shivers down my neck.

  Her colors, which had been so bright moments before, were now diffused. No longer a blue sky, but one with the dreary gray cast of a squall. In contrast, the man’s energy was brilliant and pure white. No other colors at all. His aura was a massive white cloud, swallowing her storm.

  Nothing in my investigations explained this. White was only ever described as the color of great spiritual masters. A cleansing light. Angelic light. I struggled for a rational explanation. Perhaps Mrs. Oberman knew him. Maybe he was giving her bad news and that was why she looked so stricken.

  His gaze flickered my way, and I quickly pulled my head back, praying he hadn’t seen me. I glanced up at the tilted mirrors on the edge of the ceiling and cursed myself. All he’d have to do is look up, and he’d see me in the mirror as well. But my heart dropped when I saw in the reflection that Mrs. Oberman now stood alone. He wasn’t there.

  Instead, he towered in front of me.

  I gripped the handle of my shopping basket, adrenaline surging. “Leave me alone,” I said through a clenched jaw. My silver aura flared out from my body.

  The man inhaled pleasurably like he could smell it, leaned in close to my ear, and said, “If I could have you, she wouldn’t have to die.”

  Eleven

  T

  he man strolled away—casual, normal—as if he hadn’t whispered menacing words about death in my ear. I was shaking violently when I tried to pull out my phone to call my dad, and it slipped from my trembling hand. Seconds later I heard a sound like a sack of potatoes dropped on the ground. Someone gasped.

  Mrs. Oberman lay still on the polished floor.

  I ran over, sliding onto my knees next to her.

  I wrapped my hand around her papery arm and called her name. Her eyes were fixed open. The man with the white aura did this, I knew it. But how? I recalled her distressed expression, her dimmed aura, his glaring pure white one, his simpering smile in the face of her fear. If I could have you, she wouldn’t have to die. Fear slipped an icy hand around my spine, shaking me.

  Someone called an ambulance. I stayed with Mrs. Oberman until the paramedics came and they rolled her away on the gurney. Her body looked so small under the blanket, like without her soul she took up less space.

  After I called my dad, he rushed into the store and gathered me up to go home. In the car, I warred with myself about how much to tell him. To any observer, the man had simply spoken briefly to Mrs. Oberman, spoken to me, and left. Who would believe my theory that he was somehow responsible for her death? My dad didn’t even believe I saw auras. He was quiet and distant as we drove. I crossed my arms; his indifference ignited a fire of antagonism inside me. I wanted him to react.

  “Someone died right in front of my eyes, and you’re a million miles away! What? Is it your precious work? Are the mysteries of the universe more important than your own daughter’s emotionally scarring experience?”

  Dad tilted his head and gave me a strained look. “No, of course not. There’s nothing in this world more important to me than you.” He set his hand briefly over mine, his tone softening. “Maybe if you believed that, you’d be a bit more understanding about the things I do to protect you, including my work.”

  I wanted to believe him. He’d taken a sample of my blood because he was investigating mysterious deaths. Mrs. Oberman’s death was certainly mysterious. Were they related? I was about to question him, press him to explain how his work was protecting me, when he loosened his tie and said, “Tell me everything that happened back there. But slow down this time.” His eyes shone with sincerity. “I want to know every detail.”

  “Okay.” I sighed, reassured by his interest. “But I’m warning you, if you dismiss what I’m about to tell you because it involves seeing auras, I won’t say another word.”

  At home, Janelle made me chocolate-hazelnut tea and biscotti and coddled me as though Mrs. Oberman were a relative. It was the first time I let myself relax into a hug with Janelle without pulling away. It felt good to be hugged. There was something honeyed about mom hugs, even if she wasn’t my real mother.

  The whole event left me out of sorts, cold, and scared. I was beginning to regret telling my father the story after seeing the effect it had on him. His eyes were spooked as he stuttered through placating responses. Then he remained quiet for the rest of the ride home. I’d be lucky if he ever let me leave the house again. I purposely didn’t mention the man had been following me or what he had said. Between my father’s fear, Faye’s ominous warnings, and Mrs. Oberman, the world was conspiring to make me a prisoner in my own home.

  I dipped biscotti into my tea and settled back against my pillow with my Ireland scrapbook. Ireland was my someday obsession, the only connection I had with my mother. Finn had ratcheted up my interest, and I needed something to divert me from the memory of that man whispering in my ear. I shuddered again and scooted deeper into the pillows.

  Pulling out the pocket map of Ireland, I traced my fingers over County Kildare, where I’d been born. I had a recurring fantasy that someday I’d go back to Ireland, to some quaint town with cobblestone streets and rock walls around thatched cottages. I would turn a corner and come face-to-face with my mother. In my fantasies, I’d recognize her, even though there was no way I could. Dad claimed all pictures of her were lost. But in my fantasy, she and I would stop. Stare. She wouldn’t know me because I was grown, but she’d give me a long, searching look, like I was a secret the wind whispered in her ear. One of her ghosts.

  I glanced at County Meath—Finn’s home—and smiled. I flipped through pages of pictures I’d collected over the years of impossibly green meadows, seaside port villages, the imposing Cliffs of Moher, and the ancient megalithic site, Newgrange.

  For years, I had been putting my name into the annual lottery to visit the burial chamber at Newgrange on the winter solstice. Tens of thousands of people put their name in each year just to see that event. The mysterious, unknown, ancient people who built the site were sophisticated enough to construct the chamber in such a way that on one magical day, the winter solstice, the sun would sear through an opening above the entryway and shine its light deep into the burial chamber. If I won, I reasoned, it would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Dad would have to let me go. Next to the picture of the tomb, I came across a black-and-white photo: the carving of the triple spiral. Finn’s tattoo did look like it had been traced from the three spirals. I’d forgotten to ask him about it.

  My bedroom door flung open, and Mari blew in with only the top of her head visible above all the clothes she carried. I’d forgotten she was coming over with a pile of her own clothes to tutor me on fashion. Apparently, it takes serious effort and planning to look casually, accidentally adorable. “The key is to look stylish while still looking like you,” she proclaimed, tossing the mound of fabric on top of me.

  I unburied myself and gave her the eye. “I totally forgot about you coming over after—”

  “Yeah, Janelle filled me in. That’s totally macabre. I say we need to shake you out of this funk. Get up. It’s fashion-show time. It’ll be a good distraction.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good time.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “You almost died in the hospital. Someone died right in front of you today. You gonna lie there and act like you’re dead, too, or live your life like you’re glad to have it?”

  She was so damn pushy! And she was right. I stuffed my scrapbook under my pillow and climbed out of bed, agreeing to try on a couple of options she’d assembled for me, things I never would have thought to put together. I slipped off one pair of her jeans that made my thighs look like kielbasa and then put on my favorite capris as an act of defeat. “I just ran out of give a crap.”

  “Those capris do nothing for your ass. And girl, really, you have a nice ass.”

  “You’re assessing my ass?”

  “Yes
. Grading on the curve.” Mari cracked herself up. “Seriously though, yours is a fully realized butt.”

  I tossed a shirt at her. “Speaking of curvy Latin butts, I’m hungry.”

  “Me, too,” she said, judging her own backside in the mirror. “Think we can rip off a couple of empanadas? They smell insane.”

  We went on empanada recon, stealthily making our way to the kitchen like we used to when we were little and wanted midnight cookies, because Mari convinced me that if you ate a sweet at midnight, it would give you sweet dreams. My father caught us as he was coming out of his office, looking serious and grave. No longer empanada ninjas, we continued to the kitchen, each grabbing one from the cooling rack on the counter and wrapping them in napkins.

  “We should call Dun and tell him to come over. You know how much he loves these,” Mari said, nibbling the corner of the pastry. Steam coiled out with the pungent aroma of beef and garlic. “And he always cheers you up better than me.”

  “I’m on it,” I said, but my cell phone was about dead after calling my dad from the supermarket. I set it on the charger and went to grab the phone in Dad’s office. The phone was still warm from my father’s hand. As soon as I touched it, my vision went black. Flashes of images and sounds assaulted my mind.

  I saw my father speaking on this phone, his voice a panicked whisper. “It’s happened. Ever since she got sick, she’s been different. Changed.”

  My grandmother’s gristly voice scraped across the miles. “She is her mother’s daughter, Benito. We knew this could happen.”

  “Yes, but for years, you held it at bay. Until I can further analyze her blood for a possible answer, you have to help her. They might have found us. Strange things are happening. I think we’re not safe here anymore. If they see, if anyone figures out the truth about her…”

  I swayed slightly on my feet, the world around me invisible but for the vision of my father on the phone and their hushed voices inside my head. “No, mijo,” my grandmother said. “I’ve tried. I don’t think I can help her anymore.” Despair. I could feel the utter despair coating my father, especially when Mami Tulke added softly, “She is what she is. You cannot save her from this, just as you could not save Grace.”