“You know what I mean. I feel better when I’m with you.” He wasn’t sure how to reply, and didn’t. They sat in silence a moment longer, and then she said, “Do I talk in my sleep?”
“Uh.” He blew on his tea and said, carefully, “Sometimes.”
Her face swiveled his way, but he might as well have tried reading the expression of a shadow. “What do I say?”
He sipped tea as a delaying tactic and scalded the roof of his mouth. “Just stuff.”
“Hunh,” she grunted, then hugged herself. “I thought so. Sometimes I wake myself up and I know I’ve been talking.” “Everyone has bad dreams, Lena.”
“Not like mine.”
He thought of that horrible morning when he was eight and had wandered downstairs to find no breakfast on the table and his father alternately sucking on bloodied knuckles and a bottle of Maker’s Mark. There had been no Deidre, his father’s girlfriend of the month, either. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Do you dream about stuff from, you know, before?” Oh, the nightmares had begun well before the world died. His dreams were raw and violent and very loud: shouts and a woman’s pleas—and then a weird, rhythmic noise that started out hollow and dull and went on and on, becoming wetter and meatier and, finally, sodden, as if someone had taken a bat to an overripe cantaloupe.
“None of what I dream about from before is very good,” he said to Lena.
“Me neither. I guess that’s why all my dreams are bad: because it was bad. Isn’t that weird? I mean, the world goes to hell, kids have Changed into these monsters—but my life wasn’t so great before.”
He’d never thought about it in quite that way, but she was right.
Getting to Rule had been the only good thing to happen to him in years. Peter and he got along from the start. In fact, now that he thought about it, when they’d first met, Peter’s face had shifted from shock to, well, joy. He made Chris feel like he’d finally found his way home. Brothers could not be closer. “You know what’s really freaky? In Rule, I was probably the happiest I’d ever been.”
“Makes one of us,” she said. “How come you never ask me anything about before? Living with the Amish?”
Because he knew there was nothing good there and he had enough dark memories of his own? “I don’t know. None of my business? Besides, you and Peter were, you know, pretty tight. I figured you talked to him.”
“Some but not much.” She gave a little laugh. “I’m, like, totally in love with the guy, but he never asked what a pagan like me was doing with the Amish. I only wanted to forget it.”
He could feel that she wanted to tell him. “So why were you there?”
“My mom was this complete druggie,” she said, matter-offactly. “Crystal meth and cocaine to go up; booze to come down. She flunked rehab, like, ten times or something stupid. I guess she thought that being Amish was her ticket to getting clean, so she married this drooly old perv named Crusher Karl.”
Karl was a name she muttered in her sleep. “What kind of name is that?”
“His nickname. Almost all the Amish have them, like this guy they called Pig John because he raised hogs. Crusher Karl used to work a quarry crushing stone, and he had these huge hands. He was a complete asshole, but my mom married him anyway. My brother and I never had any say.”
“That sucks.”
“Tell me about it. You know the Amish don’t send their kids to school after eighth grade? I kept running away, as often as I could, just to hike five miles to this bus stop so I could go. Can you believe it? Karl always dragged me back and locked me in the barn.
Finally, the bishop told him to just leave me alone. But, boy, that old bastard made sure I paid. Used to hit me with this riding crop he kept for the buggy horses. Of course, my mom knew, but she only told the bishop, and he didn’t want the English involved,” she drawled in a broad German accent, and snorted. “Asshole.”
This was stuff he didn’t need or want to hear, but he had no idea how to stop her. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, he was the one who ended up sorry. Know what I finally did?” she asked, then went on without waiting for his answer. “I stabbed the bastard.”
He blinked. “You stabbed the bishop?”
“No,” she said, as if he was a moron. “Karl. One night when he came by to visit.” She punctuated with air quotes. “He visited a lot.”
“Oh,” he said, wishing she would just shut up. “Honestly, Lena, it’s none of my business.”
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “It was the bishop and the ministers who decided to get rid of the body. The whole ‘no English police’ thing—and, you know, the Amish have this reputation for being so pure and all. I have no idea what they did with Karl or told the people at the quarry, but that was that. Karl was just gone, like he’d never existed. I think they were secretly glad I’d gotten rid of the asshole.”
He said nothing.
“I never told anyone before,” she said.
“Why are you telling me now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a last confession or something.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. Just talking.” Her voice was ragged, and she sighed. “I’m really tired, but my head’s crowded, like everything’s kind of flooding out at once. Then, other times, I just go . . . blank. Like a white sheet of paper. It’s so weird. Can you die if you don’t sleep?”
The only thing he knew was a person could go crazy, and she was definitely headed there. “You should get some sleep,” he said, praying that she would listen. “Please.”
“Okay.” She put a hand on his arm. “Can I stay here? I know Nathan won’t hurt me, but I’m kind of freaked out. You know, being alone with him?”
He was just as uncomfortable having her stay, but he shucked out of the spare sleeping bag they’d found. “Here. You can use this. I’ll be okay without.”
“Thanks,” she said. He turned away to study the snow again; heard the bag rustle then still. After another moment, her voice floated on the darkness. “Chris? Can I ask you a question?”
“Lena, please, go to sleep. I mean it.”
“I will, but I keep meaning to ask this and I always forget. I don’t know why.”
Some things—like his past and, from the sound of it, hers— were best left forgotten. But he had a pretty good feeling what she would ask. On the way back from Oren, he’d gone over it in his head, rehearsing how he would break the news. But then Alex had run, Jess had clobbered him, and the rest was history. “What is it?”
“You remember the boy? The one Greg brought back the morning Alex left? Was it—”
62
And then, in mid-sentence, Lena blanked. Just . . . fizzle, pop, gone, as if her brain had thrown a circuit breaker as a connection failed. It was the strangest, weirdest feeling, like her thoughts were words on a page that had been suddenly erased. Her mind bleached completely white.
Where am I? She swept her eyes around the room, spotted a tumble of chairs and desks. Books on the floor. And this boy on a stool . . . Who is he? Her gaze shot to the sleeping bag puddled at her waist. Sleeping bag, on the floor . . . What am I doing here?
Dark. She remembered that. Dreaming—yeah, that was right. And then she’d snapped awake. Tea. She’d made tea for . . . for this boy because she wanted company.
Who is he? Why can’t I remember? A lance of fear stabbed her chest, and she began to tremble. I must be sick. Her forehead was wet. Why couldn’t she remember?
“Hey.” A white shimmer sailed from the dark, and his hand touched her shoulder. The voice said something more, but it was all so much gibberish and black sound.
What’s wrong with me? The words were all locked up somewhere. Nothing made sense: not where she was or why, or even the shadowy figure of the boy looming over her. Who is he?
Then: Who am I?
“Lena?” The boy gave her a little shake. “Are you okay?” Whatever grabbed her suddenly let go. “Yeah,” she said in a breathy little gasp. “I’m . . . I’m okay.” She put a hand to her temple. Her head throbbed. “I’m not feeling very well.”
“You haven’t been eating,” the boy said. “You really need to get some sleep, too.”
Chris, it’s Chris; what’s wrong with you? Then the last half hour suddenly rushed back like pent-up water released from a dam. Embarrassment washed through in a hot flood that heated her skin. God, why did I do that? I’ve never told anyone about Karl. What’s the matter with me?
“Yeah.” Tears burned, and she bit her lip to stopper a sob. “Sorry.”
“No problem. Just go to sleep.” Kneeling, he pulled the bag up around her chin. “Come on. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Her throat clenched. “C-Chris?”
“Hey, hey.” He gave her shoulder an awkward pat. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m . . .” She gulped. Felt the wet rolling down her cheeks. “I’m scared.”
“Hey,” he said again, and then he stopped talking and just let her hang on while she hiccupped into his shirt.
“S-sorry,” she said, finally. She dragged a hand over her swollen eyes. “I-I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” His hand cupped the back of her neck, and she let her head rest on his shoulder with a grateful sigh. “We’re all scared,” he said.
Not like me. You’re not losing yourself. A weird thought that she didn’t understand but felt, somehow, was exactly right. She didn’t want to let go of him either. This was a bubble in time that was no more than a gasp and as fragile as the thinnest, most perfect glass. I’m real; right now, I’m here and I’m me. She was afraid to move or speak, because then time would start up again and the moment would be gone, forever. Maybe her, too. For the first time in weeks, she was real; there was no other word that described how she felt, as if his arms not only held but defined her, gave her limits, kept her from falling apart, blasting to bits. She heard the steady thump of his heart, and his scent was . . . indescribable.
