Part 8 (1/2)

Hailey McCourt could not read the words in her textbook because they were tap-dancing on the page. She slid her ponytail holder out of her hair and tied it up a little less tightly. Her mom got migraines ... maybe she was predisposed to inheriting them. But G.o.d, of all days to find that out! As long as it waited until after soccer tryouts, then Hailey didn't care if she dropped dead in the locker room.

Mr. O'Donnell asked her to put last night's homework on the board, some horrendous trigonometry proof. Hailey swallowed and stood up, trying to find her center before she walked to the front of the room. But she stumbled on a desk, collapsing on top of the kid sitting in it.

There were a few t.i.tters, and the girl she'd fallen on gave her a dirty look. Finally, Hailey reached a spot just behind Mr. O'Donnell, who was busy collecting papers. She tried to pick up the chalk, but every time she did, it slipped out of her fingers. This time, the whole cla.s.s snickered.

”Ms. McCourt,” the teacher said, ”we don't have time for this today.”

She swiped for the chalk, holding it primitively, as if her hand was no better than a paw. Then she looked up.

The cla.s.sroom was upside down.

She was standing, all right, and the blackboard was in front of her. But her feet rested on the ceiling, and the kids in the cla.s.s, behind her, were suspended, feet first from their seats.

She must have made a sound, because Mr. O'Donnell approached. ”Hailey,” he said quietly, ”do you need to see the nurse?”

The h.e.l.l with soccer. The h.e.l.l with everything. Hailey felt tears spring to her eyes. ”Yes,” she whispered.

She turned and fled, forgetting about her books and her knapsack. She suddenly didn't fit into this world, and she had no idea how to move in it with grace. That was Hailey McCourt's last thought before she walked directly into the door frame and knocked herself unconscious.

Unlike many of the houses in Salem Falls, which were close together, Addie's sat all by itself in the woods up a long, winding driveway. Tiny and neat with weathered s.h.i.+ngles and a green roof, the little cape seemed to suit her. Smoke rose from the chimney to cut a signature across the night sky. Set off in the yard, in a moonlit mud puddle, was a rusty swing set.

Jack sat on a curved rubber seat. The racket that came when he swung back and forth was painful, like old bones being brought to life. Surely, inside, Addie was listening.

When the door opened, Jack watched feelings chase across her face-hope, as she turned to the swing set; disappointment, as she realized he was not her daughter; curiosity, as she wondered what had brought him here.

As she approached, Jack saw a final emotion: relief. ”Where have you been?”

Jack shrugged. ”I'm sorry about not showing up for work today.”

Even in the dim light, Jack saw Addie blush. ”Well, I asked for it. I should never have treated you the way I did the other night. I know you were only doing what you thought was right.”

Jack sucked in a deep breath, using it to force out the explanation lodged in his chest. ”There's something I need to tell you, Addie.”

”No ... I think I ought to talk first.” She stood in front of him, trailing the toes of her boots in the mud. ”That day at Stuart's ... you asked me what happened to Chloe.”

Jack went very still, the way he would have if a rare b.u.t.terfly suddenly landed a foot in front of him. ”I know she's dead,” Addie confessed. ”I may say or do differently, but I know.” She set her swing rocking slightly. ”She woke up one morning and she had a sore throat. That's it-just a sore throat, the same thing a hundred other kids get. Her fever wasn't even past ninety-nine. And I ... I had to work that day. So I stuck her upstairs at my dad's on the couch, with cartoons on TV, while I waitressed. I figured if it was a virus, it would go away. If it was strep, I'd make a doctor's appointment after the lunch crunch.” Addie lowered her face, her profile edged in silver. ”I should have taken her in right away. I just didn't think ... she was that sick.”

”Bacterial meningitis,” Jack murmured.

”She died at 5:07. I remember, because the news was coming on TV, and I thought, What could they possibly tell me about the world gone bad that is more awful than this?” What could they possibly tell me about the world gone bad that is more awful than this?” Finally, she met Jack's eyes. ”I go a little crazy sometimes when it comes to Chloe. I know she's never going to eat the sandwich I set out for her at the diner, not anymore. But I need to put it there. And I know she's never going to get in my way again when I'm serving plates, but I wish she would ... so I pretend that she does.” Finally, she met Jack's eyes. ”I go a little crazy sometimes when it comes to Chloe. I know she's never going to eat the sandwich I set out for her at the diner, not anymore. But I need to put it there. And I know she's never going to get in my way again when I'm serving plates, but I wish she would ... so I pretend that she does.”

”Addie-”

”Even when I try my hardest, I can't remember exactly what her smile looked like. Or if the color of her hair was more gold or more yellow. It gets worse ... harder ... every year. I lost her once,” Addie said brokenly. ”I can't stand to lose her all over again.”

”A doctor might not have caught it in time, Addie. Not even if you'd brought Chloe in that morning.”

”I was her mother. It was my job to make it better.”

Jack repeated what she'd said to him. ”You were only doing what you thought was right.”

But she didn't answer. She stared, instead, at the ridge of burned skin on his palm that would turn into a scar. Slowly, giving him time to pull away, Addie kneeled and bent over Jack's hand. Kissed it. He couldn't help it; he flinched.

Immediately, she drew back. ”It still hurts.”

Jack nodded. ”A little.”

”Where?”

He touched his heart, unable to speak.

When Addie brushed her lips over his chest, Jack felt his body sing. He closed his eyes, terrified to let himself wrap his arms around her, even more terrified that she would pull away. In the end, he did nothing but let her lean against him while his arms remained at his sides. ”Better?” Addie murmured, the word burning into his sweater.

”Yes,” Jack answered. ”Perfect.”

April 2000 Salem Falls, New Hamps.h.i.+re As Gillian watched her father schmooze on his office phone, words dripping from his lips like oil, she wondered what it would be like to shoot him in the head.

His brains would splatter the white carpet. His secretary, an older woman who always looked like she was choking on a plum, would probably have a heart attack. Well, that was all too violent, too obvious, Gilly thought. More like she'd poison him slowly, mixing one of his precious drugs into his food, until one day he simply didn't wake up.

Gilly grinned at this, and her father caught her eye and smiled back. He cupped his hand over the phone. ”One more minute,” he whispered, and winked.

It came over Gilly so quick, sometimes: the feeling that she was going to explode, that she was too big for her own skin, as if anger had swelled so far and fast inside her that it choked the back of her throat. Sometimes it made her want to put her fist through gla.s.s; other times, it made her cry a river. It was not something she could talk about with her friends, because what if she was the only freak who felt this way? Maybe she could have confided in her mother ... but then, she had not had a mother for years and years.

”There!” her father said triumphantly, hanging up the phone. He slung an arm around her shoulders, and Gillian was enveloped by the scents she would always a.s.sociate with her childhood: wood smoke and cinnamon and thin Cuban cigars. She turned in to the smell, eyes closing in comfort. ”What do you say we swing through the plant? You know how everyone likes to see you.”

What he meant was that he liked to show off his daughter. Gilly always felt self-conscious walking through the line, nodding at the gaptoothed workers who smiled politely at her but all the while were thinking, correctly, that they made less in a week than Gillian got for allowance money.

They entered the manufacturing part of the operation. Noise ricocheted around her, huge pistons calibrated meticulously, so that mixtures would be infallible. ”We're making Preventa today,” her father yelled in her ear. ”Emergency contraception.”

He led her to a man wearing protective headphones and circulating around the floor. ”h.e.l.lo, Jimmy. You remember my little girl?”

”Sure. Hey, Gillian.”

”Give me a second, honey,” Amos said, and then he began to ask Jimmy questions about stockpiling and s.h.i.+pments.

Gillian watched the b.u.mp and grind of the machines measuring out the active ingredients: levonorgestrel and ethinyl estradiol. The device she was standing beside funneled newly formed pills through a narrow slot at its neck, counting them into batches that would be sealed dose by dose into childproof packaging.

It took only a few seconds to dart her hand into the sorting tray and grab some.

Her hand was still in her pocket, buried deep with her secret, when Amos turned. ”Have I bored you to tears?”

Gilly smiled at her father. ”No,” she a.s.sured him. ”Not yet.”

In retrospect, Addie realized that the whole event should have been much more terrifying: breaking into a cemetery near midnight, on an evening when the moon was a great bloodshot eye in the sky. But suddenly it did not matter that she was trying to gain access to a graveyard in the darkest part of the night, that she was going to see her daughter's grave for the first time in seven years. All she knew at that moment was that someone would be with her when she took this monumental step.

Heat swam from the ground, old souls snaking between Addie's legs. ”When I was in college,” Jack said, ”I used to study in the cemetery.”

She did not know what she was more surprised by: the nature of the revelation or the fact that Jack had made it at all. ”Didn't you have a library?”