Witch-Child

by Gerilyn Marin

  All this stuff lately about ancestry and the past has made me think about that day in the pizzeria, when I saw Mrs. Parsons. I've been so sidetracked and distracted with all of this Spring-heel stuff that the note-to-self I made about visiting Grandpa got lost in the shuffle.

  I simply force a little smile, ashamed, feeling I should know better than to think Dad could ever be callous. "Yeah, but Grandpa gets so happy when he sees me. Isn't that worth a couple of hours with me being all grump-face?"

  He lets out a sigh, clearly considering my words.

  "You're right," he says, mirroring my expression as he glances at me.

  We fall quiet for a few minutes. I have the sense that he wants to tell me something. A certain fidgety tension—which is so unlike how we usually are with each other—hangs in the air.

  "So, how's your mom been lately?"

  My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline. They talk to one another, no problem, so why should he need to ask me this? "Um, she's fine."

  Again, he glances at me. "Really?"

  I drum my fingers against the dashboard as I think back over how Mom has been in the month since I last saw him. "Well, she's been a bit tired, lately."

  After a few moments, he prompts, his reddish-blonde eyebrows inching up his forehead, "That it?"

  He's definitely not telling me something. I also have no clue what he's really trying to get out of me, but I answer honestly, anyway.

  "I think so. She hasn't sprouted a second head, or started eating the wallpaper, or anything. Why are you asking?"

  "No reason," he says lightly.

  No, he lies, lightly. Bastard is lying to me, but . . . I can't call my dad a bastard aloud. And he's not actually; I just can't stand knowing that he's keeping something about Mom from me.

  I think I'm tired of males in my life being dishonest with me. I imagine my mom and her friends would giggle at me and say: You're only seventeen. Wait and see what bullshit men give you in twenty years.

  Dad pulls into a parking spot outside of my Grandpa's apartment complex. Technically, the building is an assisted living facility, but he has his own bedroom, bathroom, and small dining area/living room, and an attendant who checks on him once every hour. Thinking of the rooms as apartments is simpler, though, since the idea is to allow the elderly residents to maintain as much of their independence as possible.

  We get out of the car, walk into the building, and check in at the security desk, all in silence.

  Finally, as we get into the elevator to go to Grandpa's floor, Dad asks, "Wanna hit Burger King after this?"

  Agitation forgotten, as both my empty stomach and taste buds metaphorically cheer in unison, I turn wide eyes on him, as if he's just said the most intelligent thing in the history of time. "Oh, God, yes!"

  Dad laughs and shakes his head. We're both quiet, again, between the elevator and knocking on Grandpa's door, but now the silence is comfortable. My father's weirdness in the car falls to the wayside as the attendant, Maggie, lets us in.

  She greets us with a smile as she returns to the bedside table, packing up a little tray of instruments. "He's in the restroom."

  I feel wary suddenly, seeing her with medical equipment, though I know this is just part of her job. "Um, is he okay?"

  "Hmm?" She glances up at me, noting my attention to the tray. "Oh, yes. Routine checkup, everything is fine. He . . . ." she looks to the bathroom door and lowers her voice, speaking more to my father than me, even though I asked, but whatever. "He's had a few more episodes, nothing serious, but they are becoming more frequent."

  I feel the weight of my father's hand on my shoulder as I ask, "How frequent?"

  "Well, it's hardly something we can assign a timeframe to, but if I had to, I'd say approximately once a week."

  I don't realize my body sags a little at these words until Dad slips his arm behind my back, supporting me.

  Maggie continues; I think she's trying to get all the information out before Grandpa emerges from the bathroom. "Doctor Hanson will be by this week to give Mr. Mitchell his monthly check up, but, in my opinion," she gives me, and then my father, a meaningful look, "I think the diagnosis will be made this time."

  She's trying to be delicate for my sake, but she doesn't need to.

  I know Grandpa has exhibited signs of dementia; I don't like to think about it. I don't like that if I let myself, I'll worry that every phone call is Grandpa's doctor, informing us that he's been officially diagnosed with Alzheimer's.

  Nodding numbly, I will my eyes to stay dry as I hear the bathroom door open.

  As Maggie quietly excuses herself from the room, I step away from my father's arm, and turn to face my grandfather.

  The sight of him makes my heart clench. He's so tiny, and stooped. Tiny compared to how large a man he'd once been. Shrinking from just over six feet to barely five-nine is a huge difference. He seems more and more frail, every time I see him.

  His weathered lips move as he mumbles something.

  For a panicked minute, I fear he doesn't realize who I am; I could swear I just heard him call me Jennifer.

  I don't want to have to remind him that Gran's gone.

  "Hi, Grandpa," I say with a forced cheerfulness

  For a moment, he looks surprised and my heart sinks a little, but then he breaks into a smile and holds out his arms. "Hello, grandbaby!"

  With an inward sigh of relief, I move easily into my grandfather's embrace, hugging him gently—like I'm afraid I'll break him. I step aside, so he can shake hands with Dad.

  "Stephen," my father says with a nod and a warm grin.

  My grandfather never acknowledged the divorce. In the five years since Mom and Dad called it quits, Grandpa has continued to introduce Dad as his son-in-law.

  "Patrick," Grandpa replies, adopting a severe tone for a moment.

  I bite my lip to keep from giggling as I look over my shoulder at my dad, who appears taken aback. I know Grandpa's returned to his usual self.

  "Something wrong?"

  "Very," my grandfather barks. "The chicken here sucks."

  Dad relaxes instantly, chuckling. "I'll go yell at the kitchen staff on our way out."

  "Come sit down," Grandpa says, gesturing toward the tiny plaid couch in the living room.

  I share a glance with Dad as we follow Grandpa. My father's expression says he fully expects me to bawl like an idiot in the car after this.

  He might be right.

  After we're seated, Grandpa cups his dry, wrinkly hands around my face. "You look so much like her." He smiles, like the resemblance makes him happy.

  "Yeah, Mom says that all the time."

  He becomes somber as he stares into my eyes. "You're like her, aren't you?"

  For a moment, I only shake my head, honestly unsure of what he means, but then it dawns on me. I flick my gaze toward Dad. He just shrugs, but I can tell he knows what Grandpa is asking.

  "A little," I finally admit.

  "A little," my grandfather echoes, smiling again. "Your grandmother told me there are two ways to approach this gift she gave you."

  I stiffen a bit in my seat. Grandpa has hinted at this before, but he's never actually talked about this aspect of Gran's life; at least, not to me. I have to wonder if he somehow senses that my brushes with this gift have become more frequent recently. More dramatically difficult to ignore.

  "I'm not sure I understand," I say with a shrug and a shake of my head.

  Grandpa holds a finger up in front of his face. "You will. One, you embrace it and make peace with the fact that this is something that will be with you your entire life. Two, you shut it out and ignore that part of yourself."

  Now I hear that I can just ignore this crap? "Is that possible?"

  "From what she said, yes."

  Something in my face must give away how much I want to believe his words, because he shakes his silver, wispy-haired head at me. "Either road is dangerous. But, she always believed that to ignore it would be worse."

&
nbsp; My brow furrows. Wouldn't her life have been easier without the exhausting, confusing, sometimes terrifying, experiences?

  "How?" I ask.

  "Not knowing when something is coming, doesn't make it go away," he says.

  Before I can ask—again—what he means, Grandpa turns to Dad and starts asking about the outcome of some sporting event.

  I sit back, leaving them to talk as I pick through Gran's belated lesson. I think I understand. I think what she meant was the very basic idea that just because I can't see something, doesn't mean nothing is there.

  Maybe awareness isn't half as scary as knowing. but forcing myself to not see. Especially in a place like Drake's Cove.

  In the car, I don't bawl like an idiot. I continue to mull over what I've been told. The sun is setting and I find myself mindlessly counting pine trees as we drive down the road.

  "You okay?" Dad darts his gaze toward me.

  "Huh?" I blink, nodding, as I decide that according to what Grandpa said, Gran would tell me I was doing the right thing with my . . . well, I wouldn't call it a gift, but she did, so I'll go with that.

  "Yeah," I say, clearing my throat. "Sorry, just thinking."

  "Ah. Can we talk?"

  I nod, sitting up a little straighter beneath my seatbelt. "Sure, Dad."

  "So . . . your brother mentioned you've got a new boyfriend."

  My jaw drops as I turn my head, gaping at my father. Crap, knew I forgot to tell him something.

  "Let's talk about that."

  I groan, dropping my head back against the seat as he, without waiting for any response from me, begins to fire questions at me about Grey.

  Worst. Dad-visit. Ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Halloween

  A scowl freezes on my brother's face as he watches me come down the stairs.

  "No," he says in a bark, and I mean bark, as he steps up, blocking the foot of the staircase.

  If he was a dog, I'm pretty sure his hackles would be raised right now.

  I look down at myself, frowning. The slinky, satiny black dress fits me in a way that can be described as sprayed-on. I don't know why he's all grump-face; the layer of purple and black tulle around the bottom totally draws the eye away so that my curves aren't as showcased as they could be.

  And I'm still miffed at him for telling Dad about Grey without giving me any sort of heads up. He can stand to suffer a little.

  "No, what?" I ask, wide-eyed as I lift my gaze to his.

  I try not to laugh; though his stern expression doesn’t pair well with the Dashing Devil costume.

  At least he opted out of using the cheesy fake mustache that came in the package. With, or without, false facial hair, however, the crimson horns, high-collared cape, tail, and blindingly bright red vest make it difficult to take his displeasure seriously.

  Luckily, he chose to wear a black button-down shirt underneath, unlike the model on the package, who was shirtless.

  "I am not going out with my little sister dressed like that"

  I snort a laugh. "Please, you should see how Wendi's dressed."

  His eyes flash wider for a second, and I use the distraction to push past him.

  I'm lying, kind of. The design of Wendi's costume is very similar to mine, but the material is white and varied shades of pale blue. And Wendi's wearing it, which—I'm sure, due to whatever is going on between these two—makes a world of difference in this instance.

  I've managed to remove Obstacle Jeremy from my path just as the doorbell rings. I glance back at my brother before I answer the door.

  His attention is glued to the staircase, as Wendi finally emerges from my room, all angelic and sultry.

  Cadence, One; Watchful Eyes, Zero!

  Smiling, I proceed through our living room's entryway. I open the door to find Grey leaning on an elbow against the doorjamb. I'm forced to clear my throat as I grin at him. Not my fault, he looks good in classic Bela Lugosi garb.

  His hair is slicked back, the chocolate brown richer and darker, and the contrast makes his already bright blue-green eyes more vibrant.

  "Someone makes a handsome Dracula."

  He gives me a once-over, and then another one, but then has trouble holding my gaze. "Wow."

  That seems all he can come up with, but considering the word he chose, I'll take it.

  "I am so not wearing the fangs," he says, after clearing his throat, as he holds up the tiny plastic bag containing the aforementioned prop.

  I try not to laugh as I move back, and sweep my hand toward the living room. "New generation of vampires, these days. I could have forgone the traditional and made you wear body glitter, instead."

  "If you did," he pauses, dropping his voice to a whisper as he steps directly up to me, and stares down into my face. "You'd have to put it on me."

  My cheeks flame instantly, even as I raise up on my toes to kiss him.

  One corner of his mouth curves up into a mischievous half-grin as he lowers his head to meet me halfway, but we're preempted by someone making an impatient sound behind me.

  "All right, you four," my mother says, and I turn to see her in the middle of the living room with a camera in hand. "Let me get a couple of shots before you go."

  My brother and I both groan, our eyes rolling.

  Wendi giggles. "The only time you two look alike is when you make that face."

  I ignore her statement, shaking my head at my mother. "We're going to a Halloween Dance, not the Prom."

  Mom laughs as she puts the camera up to her eye. "In this town, they might as well be one and the same."

  Wendi and I automatically sling our arms around each other's shoulders. When Grey moves in close on the other side of me, Jeremy's hackles are up, again—I can just feel it.

  "Jer!" I glare at my brother over the top of Wendi's halo.

  My brother's gaze is locked on Grey, though he's speaking to me as he waves dismissively. "He better keep his hands above the waist, is all I'm saying.”

  "We're not all driving over there together, are we?" Grey asks quietly. I can tell by his tone that he's making an effort to ignore my brother's words.

  I haven't even properly introduced them and they hate each other. Fantastic.

  "I thought we were all just going to walk to the dance," Wendi says helpfully, but the comment only earns her a Deadpan look—Grey and Jeremy might as well have the words are you kidding? stamped across their foreheads—from the three of us.

  "No." I give my mother a pleading look as I go on, "Jer's going to borrow my mom's car to drive himself and Wendi; isn't that right, Mom?"

  My mother plasters a smile in place. "In the interest of placating my teenage daughter so she doesn’t become a nightmare to live with, sure."

  "You mean more of a nightmare," Jer whispers.

  Either Mom ignores him, or she doesn't hear him, but her forced smile lingers. "Now, everybody say cheese."

  Somehow, we get through picture taking, gathering of coats, and splitting off to get into the separate vehicles. Jeremy gives Grey the stink-eye right up until he has to redirect his attention to pull Mom's car out of the driveway.

  I think Grey purposefully lags—fumbling with his keys, running around the Jeep to open the door for me—so that we'll arrive a few minutes after Wendi and my brother.

  "What'd you do with the stuff for the seal?" I ask when I notice the bag from Sarah's shop is nowhere to be seen.

  True, I should have wondered what we would do about getting the supplies into school sooner. Our school doesn't have metal detectors, and I doubt the security guard will frisk anyone at the door, but I'm not comfortable with trying to sneak an athame into a school dance.

  I also don't know how we would explain that if we got caught.

  "I snuck the bag behind one of the boxes in the basement yesterday."

  "When?"

  He raises a brow, but keeps his attention on the road. "Just after dismissal, when Stacy cornered you to ask about Mark what's-his-n
ame."

  "Van Brimmer," I say, as I force myself to not smile. I can't help that I think he's cute when he gets jealous. "She's dating my ex. The girl just wanted to know if she was in for anything . . . weird. Like, habit-wise. Long story short, one of her exes had a secret My Little Pony collection."

  He stifles a laugh. "One of Stacy Bonham's exes is a Brony?"

  I also try not to laugh, but fail, even as I say, "Don't be judgey."

  "I have to know who this is," he says with a downright wicked grin on his face.

  "Nope, not telling. People's hobbies are their own business."

  "C'mon . . . ."

  "Nope."

  When we pull up into the school parking lot, the place is already lively. We get out and approach slowly, keeping our eyes peeled for any sign that Jeremy and Wendi wait for us at the door.

  Grey takes my hand and navigates us through the crowd of bodies in the school foyer to the gym.

  The music is so loud I can barely string two words together in my head, but that's good—in a way. No one will hear us in the basement. And bad. No one can hear us in the basement. Red crepe paper hangs just beneath the lights; the effect is dim illumination that paints everything an eerie, blood shade.

  Wow, the decorating committee couldn't have done a better job to set the mood for what Grey and I are about to do.

  I keep a lookout, to be sure we're not spotted as we disappear behind the rows of streamers, inflatable ghosts, and papier-mâché monsters that surround the festivities.

  The door to the cafeteria hallway—the one with the stairwell that branches off and leads down to the subbasement—is clear. Grey looks back over his shoulder as he pushes open the door, using his hand on mine to guide me in ahead of him.

  This stairwell is clear, and silent, aside from the strains of music that flood the building. Nervousness makes my stomach icy suddenly, and my pulse thrums in my ears. I glance back a few times as we descend the steps, certain that my senses are playing tricks on me.

  I know the murmurs around me must be my imagination, because Grey doesn't react to them. Though, the thought occurs to me that maybe I'm hearing something he simply can't.