alone for the rest of the period.
The day passes quickly, and for a few hours everything is completely ordinary. I sit alone at lunch, I listen closely to the lectures, and I don’t talk to anyone in my classes. It isn’t until I’m back in my truck and heading home that I sense it again. That presence. I actually stop in the middle of the road, tasting it, tilting my head as I flip through my memories for a match to this essence. It’s no one I’ve met before, I realize. Yet there’s something so … oddly familiar about it. How can that be? And it isn’t trying to hide itself from me; it’s as if it’s calling to me, hoping I’ll try to find it. Is it an Emotion?
But Dad is expecting me home. The cows won’t milk themselves. I also need to make a call to the hospital to see how Maggie is doing—the normal behavior of a friend. Shifting back into first gear, I continue on my way home.
The presence stays with me until I pull into the driveway; then it leaves, a silent mystery.
I know it will be back.
Everyone has a purpose. There are those who are unfortunate enough not to know what that purpose is, and there are those that are bound by it, thrive in it, know nothing else.
Unlike humanity, Fear and all the rest like him have no governors or presidents or kings. They’re ruled by their own natures, which are hardwired into their every pore, vein, eyelash. And Emotions are not alone in their purpose. There is a design for every single thing. There is a being for Light, Song, Wind, Grass, Life, and Death. Winter, Spring, Fall. The Elements and the Seasons. They are part of our world and apart from it. They exist on another plane, spiritlike creatures that humans can’t hear or see … unless they’re strange, like me. There doesn’t seem to be a limit on how many places they can be at once.
Some of these creatures I’ve met. Most I haven’t. So every time I see an out-of-place being out in the fields, as I do now, I wonder who I’m looking at. It’s dark out, and there’s a thick mist. The figure walks with purpose through the crops, hands outspread. Fog again?
After a few moments, the stranger in the field vanishes, finished with whatever he or she set out to do. I pull my gaze from the window and try to focus on the conversation. Something about football, I think. Friday night. My brother is home for the weekend, as he usually is; he works at Fowler’s Grocery in town until he goes back to college on Mondays. I’m quiet—I think my parents prefer it this way—and keep my head down, studying the patterns in the flowered tablecloth as I pick at my food. Corn and potatoes and pork. Yellow, white, pink.
“Liz, you haven’t said a word all night,” my brother says suddenly, and when I look up, his gaze is gentle, encouraging. Even though he probably thinks I’m weird, like the rest of the town, Charles is kind to me.
Something is off about him tonight, though. I sense it, and I probe Charles’ expression. I suspect it has something to do with school; he told me he’s been having trouble with his classes. I notice the way his hands shake slightly as he lifts his glass, the way his eyes dart to Dad and back to his plate again nervously. Apprehension is behind him, resting his hand on my brother’s shoulder. The Emotion pays me no mind.
“I have nothing to say, thanks,” I murmur. I’ve been watching the situation and I have no intention of taking part in it. If Charles has bad news, Tim—Dad—will need someone to take his anger out on later. Because Charles is the favorite child by far, I know it won’t be him. Instinct urges me to be as invisible as possible until the inevitable storm hits.
“What about your friend Maggie? How is she doing?” Charles asks next.
“She’s fine,” I mumble to the table. To discourage more questions, I shove a forkful of potatoes into my mouth.
Dad says something about football again, and Charles dives back into that discussion. I shift my attention from him to Mom. She looks tired. There’s a new bruise by her temple. She’s doing her best to hide the pain, though. She butters a piece of bread as if it’s her sole purpose in life.
“Sarah, my glass is empty,” Dad mutters, and my mother doesn’t hesitate; she gets up, a weary shadow. Charles says something about how good the pork is. There’s no way to ignore what’s happening, but he’s always done his best. The three of us eat in stiff silence. The food is a tasteless lump on my tongue. Tim keeps his head down and Charles’s knee bounces. My gaze strays to the window again. The mist rolls over the fields.
When Mom comes back from the kitchen, I see that Resentment is following her, touching her shoulder as she sets Dad’s precious milk in front of him and sits down. The chair protests by uttering a long groan. The conversation doesn’t continue. We’re silent, a fragmented pretense of belonging, and we all know it.
When our eyes meet, Resentment nods in greeting. He’s bald—even though they’re immortal, Emotions resemble humans in appearance—and I’ve always thought he looks a lot like Mr. Clean minus the gold hoop earring. “How are you, little one?” he questions me. He’s one of the few Emotions that enjoy talking to me. Then again, he enjoys talking to anyone. Resentment has always had a chatty tendency.
I give everyone an excuse and push my chair back, slipping into the kitchen with my glass in hand. Without looking, I know Resentment will follow. No one would appreciate me speaking to the air, so I’m careful to keep my voice low as I say, “I’m the same.” I don’t bother to tiptoe around his question. When dealing with anything otherworldly, I’ve learned to avoid playing the games they love so much. I twist the knob on the sink.
Water spills over the rim of the glass and splatters against the silver sink bottom. I don’t even notice until I feel the cool splash on my fingers. I turn the knob back quickly. Resentment is appraising me. I move by him to stand in the doorway, watching the people I call family. The walls of the house creak, noticeable now because of the heavy silence.
Although Resentment has released his hold on my mother, his effect lingers. She will feel it for hours. And of course more will come to touch her during the course of the evening; it’s the way of humanity to be consumed by Emotions. She hides Resentment’s essence the same way she hides everything else. The only sign of her feelings toward Dad is the purse of her lips. Something no one else will notice but me.
“Fear has been looking for answers,” the Emotion tells me now. “I actually caught him going through some newspaper archives the other day. I haven’t seen him this intrigued about a mortal in over a decade.”
“He won’t find anything,” I say flatly. For once, I don’t have to pretend. “Fear only hunts because he’s bored.” No one in the dining room notices my scrutiny. Charles’s knife clinks against his plate. Mom and Dad discuss the crops.
Resentment doesn’t have a response to this, and we fall silent. As we stand there, it suddenly occurs to me that he might know about the presence I sensed earlier. For a few seconds I consider asking, but something holds my tongue.
Dad will notice if I stay away too long. Nodding a goodbye to Resentment, I rejoin them. Charles is saying something about Fowler’s Grocery now. Sliding into my seat, I take another bite of my barely touched meal so no one will detect anything amiss
“I have more summons to see to,” Resentment tells me, his hairless head gleaming in the light of the chandelier. “Enjoy your time with these pathetic people.”
I can’t reply, and he vanishes. Resentment is a simple creature; he has his purpose, he is what he is, and there isn’t much more to him. He’s said before that he doesn’t understand why I bother living among humanity, living a lie. The truth is, I hide my real nature because if I don’t, my nothingness would consume me. I would become a wandering creature, with no connections and no soul. My life in Edson isn’t perfect at all, but it is a life —the only one I’ll ever have. So, even though I don’t hold any feeling for my place in this family or this town, I will hold on to it because I can.
After helping Mom with the dishes—or rather, trying to help and having her edge around me, avoiding so much as a look in my direction—I escape the house and make my way up to the loft of the barn. It’s a serene place, silent except for the cows rustling below. Gentle shafts of the fading sun slip in through the cracks in the walls. Along each of these walls, set on top of bales of hay, are my paintings. Dad allows me to keep them up here; he doesn’t use the loft because of the leaky roof. They don’t get in his way.
The paintings are echoes of my dreams. Well, dreams and images that sometimes flit through my mind at random. I put them on canvas so that I can study and possibly learn from them.
One scene occurs over and over in the brush strokes, differing only in angles and colors. One place, one event:
a beautiful girl I’ve never met before is crying out, cradling a limp boy in her arms. They look like they could be my age, or a little older. The boy’s eyes are closed, his expression one of peace. There are trees all around, and out of the shadows, a hulking, faceless form emerges. No way to tell who or what it is, since it’s surrounded
