defended you.”
“The other plane doesn’t usually worry about human affairs,” I observe.
Courage walks away. He’s different from others; he’s not flashy and quick to disappear. In the doorway he pauses, but he doesn’t look at me again. “The other plane is changing. We’re learning more about what it means to be mortal. Be kind to him,” the Emotion repeats. “There is more than one among us who watches you; someone believes you will need that boy in the end.”
Before I can ask any of the questions that this new development brings— the end of what? Who watches? Why would I need Joshua? —he leaves. I let him go. After all, even if he is different, he’s still an Emotion, and they do love their riddles.
FIVE
The moment I slide out of the cab of my truck, gravel crunching beneath my tennis shoes, I know something is wrong. There’s a heavy silence hanging in the air, a bad omen. The cows haven’t been brought in for the milking. Dad’s pickup is gone.
I walk toward the house, shouldering my bag. The quiet rings in my ears. I let the screen door slam shut behind me, to announce my presence as usual, but Mom isn’t in the kitchen. Dropping my bag on the floor next to the table, I poke my head into every room, still sensing something … off. I climb the stairs, and just as I pass the bathroom a sob shatters the hovering gloom—Mom.
I recognize the situation immediately. My first instinct is to turn right around and hide, for the sake of self-preservation.
My second instinct is stronger: play the part . A normal person—a normal daughter—wouldn’t just walk away. On swift feet I go back down to the kitchen, grab a washcloth from the sink, wet it, and ascend the stairs again. Mom has locked the door. I run my fingers along the doorframe, looking for the small pick, and when I find it I stick it in the lock. Soon the knob twists in my hand.
“Go away,” Mom cries when she sees that it’s me coming in. Her mascara runs down her cheeks in black rivers, and there’s blood flowing from a cut in her lip.
“Are you all right?” I ask, knowing she won’t answer. And she doesn’t. She clutches her knees and rocks back and forth. The back of her head keeps knocking against the wall, and I reach out to grasp her arm, stopping her. She cringes at my touch.
“Here.” I hold out the washcloth; she won’t let me near enough to clean the cut myself. And of course she doesn’t take it. I’d guess that she’s thinking about Tim, about whatever it was that caused this. “It isn’t your fault,” I murmur.
That gets a reaction. “Shut up!” my mother hisses, glaring at me through her tears. “You’re not my child! You’re unnatural, and I want you to get out of my life! ”
I watch her for a moment. My presence is only upsetting her more, so I finally say, “I’ll go.” On my way to the door I pause by the window, noticing movement outside. I glance back at Mom. “Tim is coming back up the driveway. You probably should barricade yourself in the bedroom.”
It’s as if I haven’t spoken. She just stares at me. “What are you?” Her voice is a broken whisper.
Tim’s brakes squeal as he parks his pickup next to mine. I look back at Mom again. “Do you still want me to go?”
We both hear the screen door downstairs slam open, accompanied by a belch and a colorful string of profanities immediately after. Tim is still drunk, then. And angry. Mom’s breathing quickens. Fear materializes, kneeling down beside her to clasp her in his freezing embrace. Mom shivers, eyes glazing over.
“Help,” she whimpers to me. One word, seemingly so simple, but it’s so much more.
For just an instant, I catch a glimmer of true, undeniable compassion in Fear’s fathomless pale eyes. He smiles at me bitterly. “Ah, mortality,” he says. “Your kind is consumed by habits, traditions. The fact that she’s married to him keeps her trapped here.”
Mom is whispering something under her breath,
“The other plane doesn’t usually worry about human affairs,” I observe.
Courage walks away. He’s different from others; he’s not flashy and quick to disappear. In the doorway he pauses, but he doesn’t look at me again. “The other plane is changing. We’re learning more about what it means to be mortal. Be kind to him,” the Emotion repeats. “There is more than one among us who watches you; someone believes you will need that boy in the end.”
Before I can ask any of the questions that this new development brings— the end of what? Who watches? Why would I need Joshua? —he leaves. I let him go. After all, even if he is different, he’s still an Emotion, and they do love their riddles.
FIVE
The moment I slide out of the cab of my truck, gravel crunching beneath my tennis shoes, I know something is wrong. There’s a heavy silence hanging in the air, a bad omen. The cows haven’t been brought in for the milking. Dad’s pickup is gone.
I walk toward the house, shouldering my bag. The quiet rings in my ears. I let the screen door slam shut behind me, to announce my presence as usual, but Mom isn’t in the kitchen. Dropping my bag on the floor next to the table, I poke my head into every room, still sensing something … off. I climb the stairs, and just as I pass the bathroom a sob shatters the hovering gloom—Mom.
I recognize the situation immediately. My first instinct is to turn right around and hide, for the sake of self-preservation.
My second instinct is stronger: play the part . A normal person—a normal daughter—wouldn’t just walk away. On swift feet I go back down to the kitchen, grab a washcloth from the sink, wet it, and ascend the stairs again. Mom has locked the door. I run my fingers along the doorframe, looking for the small pick, and when I find it I stick it in the lock. Soon the knob twists in my hand.
“Go away,” Mom cries when she sees that it’s me coming in. Her mascara runs down her cheeks in black rivers, and there’s blood flowing from a cut in her lip.
“Are you all right?” I ask, knowing she won’t answer. And she doesn’t. She clutches her knees and rocks back and forth. The back of her head keeps knocking against the wall, and I reach out to grasp her arm, stopping her. She cringes at my touch.
“Here.” I hold out the washcloth; she won’t let me near enough to clean the cut myself. And of course she doesn’t take it. I’d guess that she’s thinking about Tim, about whatever it was that caused this. “It isn’t your fault,” I murmur.
That gets a reaction. “Shut up!” my mother hisses, glaring at me through her tears. “You’re not my child! You’re unnatural, and I want you to get out of my life! ”
I watch her for a moment. My presence is only upsetting her more, so I finally say, “I’ll go.” On my way to the door I pause by the window, noticing movement outside. I glance back at Mom. “Tim is coming back up the driveway. You probably should barricade yourself in the bedroom.”
It’s as if I haven’t spoken. She just stares at me. “What are you?” Her voice is a broken whisper.
Tim’s brakes squeal as he parks his pickup next to mine. I look back at Mom again. “Do you still want me to go?”
We both hear the screen door downstairs slam open, accompanied by a belch and a colorful string of profanities immediately after. Tim is still drunk, then. And angry. Mom’s breathing quickens. Fear materializes, kneeling down beside her to clasp her in his freezing embrace. Mom shivers, eyes glazing over.
“Help,” she whimpers to me. One word, seemingly so simple, but it’s so much more.
For just an instant, I catch a glimmer of true, undeniable compassion in Fear’s fathomless pale eyes. He smiles at me bitterly. “Ah, mortality,” he says. “Your kind is consumed by habits, traditions. The fact that she’s married to him keeps her trapped here.”
Mom is whispering something under her breath,