53

Morning. The sleepy, gentle kind. The first bit of life that hits me is the blinking of my phone, signifying a text message. It's from Pia, one of those silly chain messages about not forgetting your loved ones, one I suspect Brian sent her. Dashes and dots make up a dancing bear, and I laugh myself awake. I set the phone down and get up, heading for the bathroom. Halfway there, my eye catches a bit of red under the glass of my desk.

That's right. I cut that out from one of the chairs at Key Theatre. Now that I think about it, it seems kind of creepy, what I did, but I don't regret it. I can just imagine my mother's face if she were to see it, that 'what in the world for?' expression.

Since it's the fake death-day (and Saturday, meaning I can spare the time), I take my time deciding what to wear. I should wear black, shouldn't I? The color of grief. But it's just so boring. I don't feel like it says enough. I hold up a white Lycra top. I think that works. Death should be white, you know, bloodless skin and Ophelia's flowers and nothingness, like glass or ice or air. With the top goes a grayish skirt, and my ribboned flats.

I pop out, but no one seems to be awake yet. I take my time, cutting up bagels and putting different spreads on the pieces. I feel like having coffee at Artie's, and I'm heading out when the door to my father's room opens. And my father comes out.

Wait. What is he doing here? He's supposed to be at the office.

"Nora," he says my name. "I thought I heard you." He looks me up and down. "Going somewhere?"

"Yeah, I – "

"You're going to have to wait."

"Why?"

"Someone's coming over."

"Who?"

"Someone." He comes forward and picks up a newspaper, scanning it. I swallow nervously, wondering if I've been found out. Does he know I'm a Watcher? Is it the cops? I get a sudden urge to bolt, but at the same time, I know it's irrational, when I don't know for sure what he's talking about. Geez, why can't he just tell me? It could be anyone for all I know.

I plant myself on one of the stools, a vantage point to see both the kitchen and the living room. I watch my father pace and read. "Can I at least buy some coffee?"

"No."

"But it's just downstairs."

"No."

An uncertain pause. "Dad. Come on. Tell me something. You're scaring me."

"Good. I hope so."

My eyes widen. What's that supposed to mean? I take a wistful glance at his bedroom door. "Where's Maggie?"

"Don't you worry about her."

I'm just considering going to get her, in the hope that she can decode all this moronic, cryptic talk, when I hear the doorbell.

What a weird sound. I tend to forget how the melody goes, since we don't get any visitors here, no salesmen or Fed Ex guys or girl scouts. As my father goes to open the door, I feel my nerves bloom and blaze. I brace myself – maybe it's Doherty with a revelation – your daughter is a Watcher! Or maybe it's Brian's dad, the brother he rarely sees.

I hear a flutter, a familiar sound, like the brush of a trench coat. I take a step forward. "Wes?"

He lift his brows at me. "Hey, Nor."

"What are you doing here?"

"I called him down," my father says, shutting the door. I notice that he's not looking either Wes or me in the eye. He walks to a spot in front of and between us, crossing his arms tightly. He isn't tall, but he stands as sure as he always does, while Wes and I keep a meek, respectful silence. My father points at Wes first. "Tell me the truth, Wes."

"About?"

"Have you been fooling around with Nora?"

This is it. This coldness, this silence, this is the white of death. I draw a sharp breath, not just because we're in danger, but also because I know Wes. He can't lie. He can't wriggle his way out of this. Before he can speak, I pipe up, "Dad, what the hell gave you that – "

"I'm not talking to you. Keep quiet unless I ask you something."

Wes glances at me, and even though I'm used to that kind of response, he looks angry for me.

"You're twenty-six," my father hisses at him.

"Well, I'm eighteen," I cut in.

"Not yet, you're not. It's still illegal."

He doesn't say anything.

"I'm going to go to Doherty. You're going to go jail for this."

"Dad! Wes never did anything!"

"I told you to – "

"No, I mean it! I already have a boyfriend, OK?"

He stops, turning to me suddenly. His eyes are wide and questioning, while Wes stares at me, stunned.

"What are you talking about?" my father demands.

"I already have a boyfriend, and it's not Wes."

"Who? You never told me this."

"Yeah. Maybe this is why."

He pulls back, actually flushing a little. But it goes away a second later, leaving him hard and suspicious again. "Who is it?"

"His name is Glenn. He lives on Black Street."

"Oh, really? OK. Get him over here. Now."

"Now?"

He nods impatiently. I guess there's no way around it. I return to my room, looking for the old number. As I make the call, I can't help staring at the wall above my headboard, the wall separating my room from my father's. Maggie's in there. Hiding. And why would a person hide unless they've done something? I glare at the paint as I listen to ringing.

"Hello?" Glenn answers, speaking slowly, uncertainly.

"Uh … hi, Glenn."

"Nora? What's this about?"

I hardly left the door open coming in, but now, my father barrels in, throwing it wide. Switching my tone, I continue, "I'm sorry, Glenn. I had to tell him about us."

"What – ?" he gets out before my father yanks the phone from me. It looks ridiculously small and dainty at his cheek.

"Hello?" he says. "Are you Glenn?"

Silence. A nod. "OK. Glenn, this is Daniel Sullivan here. I want you to come to my apartment right now."

I see my father squint a little. "I don't care if you're working. Take a break. Get down here now. I'm pretty sure you know where we are. Come up to the seventh floor." And he hangs up. He tosses the phone onto my bed, cocking a thumb out the door. I drag myself out, where Wes is still standing in the same place, pale and edgy.

"Both of you sit down," my father orders.

I obey, and sadly, so does Wes. As Daniel Sullivan's daughter, I'm used to being treated this way, but he's an adult. He shouldn't have to take this. He knows he's got no choice, though. He's in too much trouble, and the only way he can get out of that trouble is if my father lets him off.

In the meantime, my father picks up the same newspaper, sitting at one of the stools to resume reading. He says nothing at all, and if he feels awkward about this situation, he hides it pretty well. It's absurdly quiet, every second coming closer and closer to the truth. To danger.

My father's back is to us. I look at Wes. He looks at me. I mouth 'pen'. He doesn't get it. With my hand low on the cushions, I signal writing. He frowns, wondering what the hell I'd want with a pen right now.

Trust me, Wes.

He takes a glance at my father, deeming it safe. A pen slips out of his coat, landing in my palm. I write two simple words on my palm, as large as I possibly can. When Glenn appears an eternity later, setting off that bell a second time, my father trots over and opens it. When I'm sure my father can't see, I lift my hand as if in a high wave. Glenn sees the words, looking between Wes and me.

When my father turns, I drop my arm, and for a moment, we are all frozen in place. Then, very boldy, Glenn crosses the room. He leans down. He plants a kiss on me.

My father stiffens, irritated, ruffled, but most of all, surprised. Glenn pulls back, and I can see the terror in his eyes. Or maybe it's my own terror, being reflected back.

Wes was looking away, but he manages to look up after Glenn pulls back. "I'm sorry, Sir," Glenn says. "It's just that … I haven't seen Nora in a while."

"Oh, really." My father comes over slowly, inspecting him. "So you and my daughter … ?"

Glenn doesn't say anything, but when I nod, he nods too.

"Since when?"

"Um … since a few months ago."

"Really. And do you know him?" He gestures at Wes.

Glenn shrugs. "No, Sir."

"I see. OK. In that case, Nora, you can go with your boyfriend and get your coffee now."

"Really?"

He purses his lips for a second, eyes directed at Wes. "Wes."

"Dan."

I wait for the apology, and so does Wes, but it never comes. My father just walks away, aiming for his room. And even though I know I should keep my mouth shut, even though I know should count my blessings and make my escape, I feel the words rising up in my throat. "I don't know why you keep listening to her, Dad."

He stops. Freezes. All three of us – Wes, Glenn and I – stare at the striped back of his shirt. I'm not getting a reaction. It encourages me. I go on, "This is twice now that she told you the wrong thing. Twice now that she messed everything up. Isn't it obvious?"

"Isn't what obvious?"

"Why do you think she'd want to keep ruining our lives? Who else would hate us Sullivans?"

My father still won't turn and face me, but we hear him take a gritty sigh. "I think I know."

That's right, you do. Watchers.

"But you can't be sure," he says, glancing over his shoulder.

"Why not? Where did she come from? The streets, am I right?"

He exchanges a look with Wes – they both know it's true. "And wouldn't that explain how she knew about Michael?"

Tension rides through my father's shoulders. I don't even know where all this is coming from, but it sure is fun to say. My blood is pumping sweet and fast, the way it does before a race at gym, or when I'm going up to see Wes at his apartment.

My father looks at us, his eyes narrowing. "She's been here for a couple of years now. Are you telling me she faked all that?"

"I'm just telling you what you already know. She's Maggie. I'm your daughter."

He swallows. Doesn't say a word. He marches to the bedroom door, tugging it open. Though the rest of us can't see her, we hear her movements. It sounds like she's in their bed. The bed my mother used to sleep in.

"Get out," my father orders.

"What?"

"I said get out. Pack all your things, leave this house and don't come back."

"What?" I hear shuffling, burdened steps. "What are you talking about? What is going on?"

"Um, we're just going to go now," I put in softly as they continue yelling. I rush out of the apartment, both Glenn and Wes following me. In the elevator, we moan and breathe out huge sighs, this bunch of war survivors. Wes slumps near the buttons, while Glenn turns to me.

"What the hell was that?"

"It's a long story." I gaze down at my left palm, at the words 'Kiss Me'. I smile at my old boyfriend, deciding I can at least afford him a little hug. "Thanks, Glenn. You saved our skins."

"By kissing you?"

"I had to tell him you were my boyfriend because he thought Wes and I are together."

He looks over at Wes, before blinking back at me. "Are you?"

I smile. "Does it matter?" I guess Dad could take me being with anyone - anyone but his closest friend and assistant. It's a dangerous choice, but when did I ever let anything stop me?

The elevator reaches the first floor, and we all stumble out. We practically fall over ourselves, scurrying out into the safety of the street. All that noise, the anonymity, I love it. Glenn gazes at me. "So, uh, does this mean I can go back to work now?"

"Yeah! God, I'm sorry he was so awful to you. But that's my dad."

"And you take it on a twenty-four-hour basis."

"Yeah. But it won't be forever. I'm almost done with my senior year."

"Right." He pauses. "And are you still … ?"

"What?"

"With the, you know." He takes a surreptitious glance at Wes, not sure how much he can say.

"Yeah, I am. Why? Did you change your mind?"

"No. I'm still … well."

"I know. I get it. Keeping it simple, right?"

"Yeah. That's exactly right."

"Sometimes I wish I did that." I nod at him. "Thanks, Glenn."

Next to me, Wes sighs, then extends his hand. "Same from me, too, I guess."

They shake; it's a little cold, but polite enough. Wes and I look on as he heads down to his bike and drives away. As soon as he's gone, Wes takes my arm, leading me down the sidewalk. "So who was that?"

"My ex."

"Was he your … ?"

"What?"

"Your first?"

"Wes. Seriously."

"Sorry ... can't help it."

I nod down the street. "Coffee?"

"At that café you always go to?"

"Yeah. I could introduce you to Artie. But maybe we should get them to go, and head somewhere else."

He's nodding vigorously. "Somewhere far."

"Somewhere safe. Like the river."

He seems interested in this. "The river?"

"Yeah."

"OK. Sure. Why not?"

We don't talk much until we're in my car, me focused on the road, and him balancing our coffee cups. "I guess we're going to have to be way more careful from now on," he says, sighing with the words.

"I can't believe Maggie found out." I wonder if she was really trying to protect me, or if she was just jealous. I guess I'll never know, once she's gone. Not that I really care.

"I can't believe she told him."

"Well, I can, sort of. She blabbed all about Michael, didn't she?"

Wes shakes his head, but I shrug it off. "Well, she'll be gone by the time I get home. So I don't think I have to worry about her anymore."

"What about your dad?"

"I've handled my dad for eighteen years. I think I can handle him a few more months."

Better the devil you know than the one you don't.

"We'll cool off a little until the time comes for you to go to college," Wes decides.

"Good idea. And I've already been accepted."

"Where?"

"Berkeley."

"Really?"

"Nice and far."

"Good. In that case, I'm going with you."

"Er, what?"

"Hey, I still don't have a job, remember? I'll just go look for one there."

I blink in surprise at him. I can hardly keep my eyes on the road. "You mean, you're willing to move?"

"I think, after everything, that might be better."

"And you don't mind waiting? I mean, until school starts?"

"Yeah."

"You sure you can survive that long without doing anything?"

"I think so. You'll help keep me occupied, right?"

"Of course, Wes."

We can see it now, a shimmering run of silvery-white, rippling with waves and blinking sunlight. I spot the amusement park, and pull up nearby. I find a spot, killing the engine, and Wes hands me my coffee. Without anymore heat, we drink to warm ourselves, kiss to help it even more.

"He shouldn't have done this to me," I whisper without realizing it. "Not today."

"Why? Why not today?"

I hesitate for a moment. "I … was going to see her today."

"Who?"

"Mom."

His face changes at this, at the mention, the memory of her. It's like he's forgotten, but then, I don't blame him. Even I forget sometimes. I hate that – it makes me feel guilty – but I guess people could never go on with their lives if they didn't forget.

"You can still go. We can still go."

"We?"

"Sure."

"You don't … you don't mind?"

"No. I've already been there a couple of times. I keep having to clean up the grave."

"Me too!" I exclaim, in an inappropriately happy voice. You'd think we'd just found out that we both watch Sex and the City or something. Which I don't. Much. I simmer down, my brows furrowing a little. "You really go there?"

"Of course. I loved Marissa." He blinks a moment, then smiles at me. "Though I love her daughter more."

Love, huh? I hate to think of myself as sappy or romantic, but I can't seem to get over that word. The ring of it makes me daring, words falling out of my mouth. "Actually, I have this plan of things I do whenever I go to see her."

"What things?"

"Eat her favorite food, and see Key Theatre – stuff like that."

"Really?" He actually seems interested to hear this, weird as I know this is.

"I do it every year. On October the tenth, normally, but since I'm not going to be here this October, I thought I'd do an early one, a fake one today."

"I don't think the date matters. Not really. So it's not fake. Do you always go by yourself?"

"I'd never ask my dad."

"You sure you don't mind me there?"

"No! I-I want you there."

He nods gently at this. "OK."

"OK," I echo, as he tugs me closer. And I know we will be.

End