by Beth Goobie
“The carvings,” said Skey. “I want you to feel the carvings.” Reaching out, she fumbled for Terry’s hand, then guided it along the carving, tracing the full length of the wave.
“Can you feel it?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Terry.
“It’s a scream,” said Skey. “My own scream. It hurts.”
Around her the darkness began to fade, taking Lick with it. In its place, the padded room and doorway of light reappeared, and she saw that she continued to sit beside Terry, between the dark and the light—enough light to see by, enough darkness to keep them safe. In her hand, she still held Terry’s, and now she noticed that she was gently moving the woman’s fingertips across one of the scars on her left forearm.
Carvings, Skey thought in astonishment. Scars. Stories in the tunnel wall, stories in my skin.
With a gasp, she dropped Terry’s hand and ran her own fingertips across the scar, feeling it carefully, then shifted her fingertips to the other scars on her left forearm. Beneath her touch, they hurt with fresh pain, jagged and deep as if they had just been cut. Cradling her arms against her stomach, Skey began to rock.
“How’s Ann?” she asked.
“Ann will be fine,” said Terry.
“Sorry about the wall,” said Skey. “My parents will pay for it.”
“We’ll work something out,” said Terry.
“Will I go to the detention center?” asked Skey.
“No,” Terry said firmly. “It wasn’t a riot, Skey. Ann might have been dead, if it wasn’t for you.”
“I didn’t want her to have any scars,” said Skey. “I didn’t know she was cutting her throat.”
“She was,” said Terry. “And you stopped her.”
With a sigh, Skey crawled onto Terry’s lap and burrowed her face in the woman’s neck. “I stopped her,” she whispered.
Terry’s arms came around her, and they rocked.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SIDE BY SIDE, Skey and Terry walked up the front steps of a small bungalow. From inside the door came a mad scrabbling of paws and a furious yapping. Seconds later the door opened, and they were greeted by a ferocious growling Corgi.
“Shh, Microbe,” said Lick’s mother, pushing back the dog with her foot.
“Microbe!” said Skey, staring at the animal.
“My son named him,” Lick’s mother said apologetically. She glanced at Skey and her eyes widened. “You’re the girl in the hall,” she said. “When I came to get him at school that day...”
“Yes,” said Skey.
“And you think you can help him?” asked Lick’s mother.
“I hope so,” said Skey.
Stepping inside, she scanned the thin red-haired woman standing before her, the mother who hadn’t believed her youngest son for twelve years, then had believed him absolutely. In spite of what Skey had recently told her own mother, Mrs. Mitchell was still saying, “But Jigger’s such a nice boy. His father owns Full Circle Real Estate.”
THE COURT HEARINGS were over, and the trial dates set. Skey’s statement about the two assaults—the physical one against Lick and the sexual one against herself—had put the four male Dragons into the youth detention center, where they would remain until their trials. Lick still hadn’t given his statement, but that wasn’t the primary reason Skey had decided to visit him. No, the real reason she had come here today was because she needed him. Here, in the real world, where he belonged. Where both sides of himself belonged.
“He’s still not talking,” his mother said warningly. “Just sits in his room, saying nothing.”
“Can I go in?” asked Skey.
Ms. Serkowski nodded.
“Alone?” asked Skey.
Lick’s mother glanced at Terry, who nodded. Leaving them in the front hall, Skey walked down a short hall that Ms. Serkowski had pointed out, then stopped at the first open doorway. Glancing through it, she saw that the walls were plastered with posters, but the room was deadly clean, obviously taken care of by a mother. Lick hadn’t been here in a long time. Sitting on the bed, she could see the boy from the tunnel, his eyes closed as he whispered to himself. Quietly Skey stood in the doorway, listening. Yes, it was still the same code—a long string of swear words, meticulously phrased.
“I’m here,” she said finally.
“It’s you,” said the boy. Smiling, he turned his face toward her. The bruises and black eye had faded, and the scrape scab on his left cheek was beginning to lift at the edges. Eyes still closed, he turned his head, following her movements as she pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Yes,” said Skey. “I’m the girl with the carvings.”
“You’ve been gone a long time,” he said.
“But I’ve come back,” she said.
“I was trying to feel for your carvings,” he said, frowning. “It got so quiet, I thought I’d make up some stories for myself. But I couldn’t find any ideas in the walls. Nothing.”
“They were just there for me,” she said. “Only I could feel them.”
“I’m in a weird dream now,” he said. “I don’t like it. I want to go back to the tunnel, but I don’t know how.”
“I think I have a solution,” Skey said carefully.
“You do?” asked the boy. He straightened, and she watched the thoughts run across his face.
“Remember,” she said, “how I always came and went? I was traveling between the dark tunnel and here, the dream you’re in now. I want to see if I can show you how to do it.” Slowly she took the rock out of her pocket.
“Finally,” said the boy. “I’ve been waiting for a millennium. There’s this woman who sticks to me like some kind of disease. She’ll be upset if I go.”
“She’ll be all right,” said Skey.
The boy’s body settled, as if getting ready for a long ride. “So,” he said, “how do we get there?”
Everything in Skey paused, hoping. Quietly she said, “I need to hold your hand.”
The boy’s face leapt in fear. “No way,” he said, sliding away from her on the bed. “No touching.”
“Why?” asked Skey.
“It’ll bring them back,” he said. “They’ll come back and get me again.”
“Who will come back?” she asked. “I thought you forgot everything.”
“I don’t know who they are,” he said. “I just know they come close when someone touches me. Hands. Invisible hands.” He shuddered, turning his face left, then right, scanning the darkness behind his closed eyes.
“There are different kinds of touching,” said Skey. “There’s the dragon’s claw.”
The boy nodded fiercely.
“And there’s me,” said Skey. “Just me, holding your hand.”
He grimaced, then said hesitantly, “Just my hand?”
“Just your hand,” said Skey. “It’s the only way I can take you there.”
She watched his face struggle between no and yes. How familiar this was to her—being swamped in fear and not knowing why. Fear was so much bigger when you didn’t know why.
“It’s the way to discover your own story,” she said. “All the time you were traveling the dark tunnel, you were looking for something. Searching and searching to understand why.”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“This will help you find it,” she said.
His face twisted, the pain acute. “I can’t,” he whispered.
“Yes,” said Skey, “you can.” Carefully she stretched out a hand, the rock in her palm. “My hand is in front of you,” she said softly. “You just have to reach out a little.”
“Just a little,” the boy whispered. She watched his hand tremble, reach forward and pull back. Then, with a small grunt, the boy pushed his hand forward a second time. Swiftly Skey slid her hand under his, and together their hands closed around the rock.
“What’s this?” asked the boy in surprise.
“It’s a rock,” said Skey. “I found it in the tunnel the first time I heard you.�
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“I thought it was from there,” smiled the boy. “I can feel it.”
“Now you have to wait a minute,” said Skey. “I’m going to go away for a bit, but then I’ll come back.”
“Just a bit?” asked the boy.
“Just a bit,” said Skey. “Promise.” She closed her eyes, and the boy and the bedroom disappeared. Instead of a chair, she found herself sitting on cold stone, with a trickle of water running under her leg. In her hand, she still held the rock.
“Lick?” she asked quickly.
“So,” he said irritably, his voice inches away. “You decided to show again. What brought you here now? You miss your little carvings?”
“I don’t need them anymore,” she said.
“Why’d you come back then?” demanded Lick.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, pulling back a little.
“It’s creepy by myself,” snapped Lick. “Too quiet, and I can’t see. At least you come and go. I’m stuck here. No one to talk to. It just keeps happening, over and over in my head. I can’t get away from it.”
“From what?” she asked.
“From those guys coming after me,” said Lick. “And my brother. You know—all of it.”
“You need to come back,” she said.
“Come back where?” Lick asked guardedly.
“Back to your body,” she said. “Back to the real world.”
“Where it all happened?” hissed Lick. “Even this place is better than that shit.”
“Lick,” she said urgently, “you’re in the wrong place. Things got mixed up. Reversed. You’re supposed to be there, and he’s supposed to be here.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Lick.
Taking a deep breath, she launched into it. “You did forget about your brother,” she explained carefully. “Part of you did. You made a part of yourself forget what your brother did to you, and then you sent that part of you away. He’s always lived apart from you, here in the dark tunnel where he could forget, so part of you didn’t have to know.”
“This is weird,” muttered Lick.
“I know it’s true,” she continued slowly, “because I did the same thing. I got...raped by some guys. That’s why I came here, to the dark tunnel, where there could be some peace. Where I could forget. This is where I met the boy in the tunnel, the boy who didn’t remember the other part of his life. The boy who told me that names are secrets.”
“You told me that,” said Lick.
“He told me first,” she replied. “The boy in the tunnel told me his name was a secret because he had no name. You have the name. I think you and he traded places when those guys from your school beat you up. You came here and pushed him out, and now he’s stuck out there, in your body, wandering around. And he doesn’t remember anything.”
“Lucky him,” muttered Lick.
“But he doesn’t remember your mother,” she said. “He doesn’t remember your school. He doesn’t even remember his own name.”
“So, tell him,” yelled Lick.
“He doesn’t know what it means,” she protested. “Elwin Serkowski doesn’t mean anything to him. He’s always lived here.”
Lick lapsed into silence, his breathing heavy in the dark.
“He’s part of you,” she said, leaning toward him. “He’s the part of you that has peace and quiet in him. Your peace and quiet. You need him. He needs you.”
“Bullshit,” said Lick. In the darkness she could hear his heart thudding deep and slow, pushing everything she had said away away away.
“Listen to me,” she said desperately. “Please. Names are not secret, not anymore. Yours is Lick. Mine is Skey.”
Beside her, Lick breathed in sharply.
“Why did you wash off your arm, Lick?” Skey asked softly.
“Because...,” Lick’s voice quivered, and he paused. “Well, because Mom told me what’s real is real. You don’t need to hold onto the echo.”
“I’m real,” said Skey, her voice quivering too.
As she spoke, the darkness around them wobbled slightly. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold onto this place with her mind.
“I remembered what I made myself forget,” she said quickly. “The guys who raped me—it was the Dragons. Jigger and Trevor and Balfour and Pedro. All of them. They raped me last May. After it happened, I cut my arms and made myself forget. Then I dreamed myself here to forget even more.”
Lick remained silent, breathing in the dark.
“I found you here,” Skey continued. “The other part of you, the part of you that had forgotten. But I found you there too. At school. Every time I turned around, you were there.”
“Yes,” Lick whispered.
“I kept...touching you,” Skey said. She had started crying. “I needed to touch you, but I didn’t know why.”
“That was fine with me,” said Lick.
“Can I?” she asked quietly. “Can I now? Touch your hand?”
Lick sighed, the sound whispering through the surrounding dark. “Yes,” he said.
Reaching forward, she felt his fingertips slide over hers, then brush her palm.
“What’s this?” he asked in surprise.
“Just a rock,” she said.
Trembling slightly, their hands came together around the rock.
“C’mon, Lick,” she said. “Let’s go home.”
Their hands gripped tighter. For a moment the darkness continued to surround them, and then it dissolved. Briefly, Skey felt herself holding two overlapping hands, Lick’s and the boy from the tunnel’s, and then the body of Elwin Serkowski appeared opposite her, seated on the bed with his eyes closed. As she watched, his expression took on a look of wonder, as if something new was coming to him, he was breathing different air. Slowly his eyes opened, and she saw that they were alpine green. Lick. The boy from the tunnel. They were both here, together in one face, smiling at her.
Lick let out a quiet string of swear words, and a huge grin split Skey’s face. “You can say that again,” she said.
They were still holding hands, hers beneath his. Gently she turned their gripped hands upside-down and slid hers away, leaving the rock in his palm. “For you,” she said, smiling. “So you can come and go.”
Lick and the boy from the tunnel looked at the rock, then at her. “I think,” they said in sync, “I don’t need it anymore.”
With these words, the rock disappeared. One moment, a small gray rock with white markings and rough edges was sitting in Lick’s palm, and the next it had returned to the dark tunnel and the meeting place from which it had come.
“Neither do I,” said Skey.
Lick shifted slowly on the bed, as if getting used to his body again. “Weird,” he muttered. “I feel different. I’m still me, but there’s not all those little fidgets running through me all the time.”
“You’re more relaxed,” said Skey.
“Mm,” said Lick. “I’ll probably never be relaxed, but it’s quieter in my head. Darker, sort of like twilight.”
“Between the dark and the light,” said Skey.
“Uh-huh,” said Lick. “And I still remember what happened with my brother, but it’s feels over now. Finished. It’s not happening to me right now, anymore. It’s memory, not me.”
A smile broke across Skey’s face, morning on the ocean. “I like you,” she said.
Lick was hit with a sudden massive attack of the fidgets. Then his body quieted. Reaching out, he stroked a finger along the side of Skey’s face, and she felt arousal run through her like a soft-breaking wave.
I remember you, smiled the eyes of the boy from the tunnel. Your stories in the wall.
Skey took Lick’s hand and watched his face burn its usual fierce red as hers flushed in response. There was no dragon’s claw here, just shy skin holding shy skin—very, very human. How she wanted this touch, it was true, she felt such joy in it. But at the same time, she knew that touching needed to come slowly for both of th
em. They would feel their way together gently, she promised herself. It would be like listening to stories told in the dark. Listening carefully. Touching carefully. Listening in love as they touched.
EPILOGUE
IT WAS THE THIRD WEEK of February, and Skey and her mother were packing the last of her things. There wasn’t much—the entire job had taken less than ten minutes. All that remained was the small rock that sat on the dresser.
“What’s that?” asked her mother, frowning at it.
“Just a rock,” said Skey, slipping it into her pocket. “My dreaming rock.”
She had picked it up yesterday out of the snow, on her way back from school. It was an ordinary looking rock— gray with white markings and very smooth, nothing her skin could snag and tear on. She had stood in the lockup’s parking lot, sliding the rock between her fingers while she observed the wire-crossed windows, and the rock had felt like old pain—a rounded ache, with the sharp edges gone. It was something to remind her of this place.
She hadn’t returned to the tunnels since that afternoon, months ago, in Lick’s bedroom. Every time she thought of the coming trials, she felt fear, huge waves of it. Sometimes she couldn’t breathe, but then she could again. Things went on, she took one step, then another. Then another.
JIGGER, TREVOR, BALFOUR and Pedro were still in the youth detention center. One month from now, she would stand witness at their trials. Her weekly sessions with Larry were helping her to prepare for it, and she would continue to see the social worker even though she had been discharged. Talking to him wasn’t that bad, once she had gotten used to the lime chair. Now she sat in it regularly. Her mother no longer attended these sessions. Conversations worked better without her.
One month away. Quickly Skey glanced at the elm outside her window and whispered their pact: Keep going, keep going. In response, the tree bowed in ancient grace to her and the wind. She nodded back.
“Your father will be glad to see you,” said her mother, moving toward the door.
“Who?” asked Skey carelessly as she closed the small suitcase on her bed.
“Your father will be coming over later to welcome you home,” said her mother pointedly.