“Charley?” I call out. With one hand on the stake, I use the other to remove the goggles, to lift the mask and expose his face.
Thin lips.
A square jaw.
High, pronounced cheekbones.
A flash of dark curly hair, just like I remember.
With trembling fingers, I lift his eyelid, able to see the steel-blue color of his eyes: the shade I haven’t been able to paint.
I start to pull my hand away, but he grabs me—hard. His gloved hand wraps around my wrist. Still gripping the stake with my other hand, I drive the blade deeper into his gut.
His eyes bulge. His mouth parts open. The grip on my wrist loosens, and I’m able to get up, to back away.
His chest doesn’t move. I don’t think he’s breathing. I look toward his pocket, tempted to see what’s inside it, but I grab the lantern instead and move back through the woods, desperate to get away.
NOW
55
I trample through the woods on a dirt-lined trail, using the lantern to guide the way. Sticks break somewhere behind me.
I picture Charley running to catch me.
Was his chest truly still? Could he have been holding his breath? Did he only pretend to be hurt? To prolong the chase? To continue the story?
Finally, I reach the chain-link fence. My hand is still throbbing. What did Charley have in his pocket? Could he use it on me still? Has he already gotten up?
If only I’d thought to take his night vision goggles. It’s so dark, despite the lantern. I’m barely able to make out more than a couple of feet in front of me.
I stop a moment—to catch my breath, to listen for him approaching. It’s quiet again; there’s just the hooting of an owl. I snatch a rock from the ground, just in case, and continue to follow the fence around to the front of the salvage yard, and up to the street, to where I parked the car.
There’s a spare key hidden beneath the bumper—my dad’s old trick. I go to retrieve it, scooting down, and searching frantically beneath the lip.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
My eyes won’t stop tearing.
Where is it?
On the other side of the bumper?
I stand to check, suddenly noticing my tire has been slashed. I move around the car to check the others. The two front tires have been slashed as well.
The road is completely desolate. I begin in the direction of where I came, still anxious about Charley, still wondering where he is—if he’s come to. I quicken my pace, my shin aching from where I hit it.
What time is it?
Where should I go?
Finally, I get to the end of the street. Streetlamps shine over a post office, a convenience store, and the town bank. All of them are closed. Antique-style houses sit back from the road, farther down the street. All the lights inside them are off. No one’s awake.
A clock on the front of the bank reads just after one. Is it even correct?
I start to cross the street, to head toward the houses, just as a dark truck turns onto the road, making a screeching sound like a wounded animal.
I stop short.
The driver does too. Headlights shine directly into my eyes. I wave my arms, desperate for help.
The door flings open. A guy gets out—tall, medium build. It takes me a moment to recognize who it is.
The sight of Garret is almost too much to take in. I drop the rock and feel a huge release inside my chest.
Garret says something, but it’s all too much to process. His phone is in his hand. I grab it, turn it on, and dial 9-1-1.
“Please come,” I tell the operator. “I think someone might be dead.”
I think I’m going to be sick.
I half think Peyton is still alive, still for real.
“How can she not be?” I ask aloud, looking down at the mood ring. What if Peyton has one too? What if she used it to disappear?
Garret doesn’t respond. At least I don’t think he does. Instead, he drapes something warm and heavy over my shoulders. It takes me a beat to realize it’s his sweatshirt.
The operator asks me questions, but I can’t answer now.
I don’t want to talk.
I just want to sit on the side of the road and watch the flames go out one by one. And so that’s what I do—until I can no longer smell smoke, until I can finally breathe free.
NOW
56
Six weeks later.
In my room.
I stand at my easel, painting a new self-portrait: an assignment given by Cecelia Bridges, the therapist Aunt Dessa recommended. I’ve been seeing her twice a week for a few weeks now. Our sessions are work; I’m not going to lie. But I haven’t even minded because I’ve been able to communicate through my art, which Cecelia encourages, and for now that feels more telling than words.
My canvas has been prepped in solid matte black. But my intention is to create lightness. I’ve chosen two main colors to do that: gold and white (iridescent eggshell, to be exact). In the end, my piece will glow.
I start at the very bottom and paint the strong roots of a hearty tree: roots that extend far beyond the canvas. I imagine they’re more than a hundred feet long, burrowed beneath the soil and made up of the generations before me, those whose influences have helped raise me up.
I paint hands in the roots—palms that lift; fingers that stretch, leaving their prints in the trunk; and wrists that bend just enough to allow lessons to seep in, truth to unwind, and stories to flow. I specifically paint my parents’ hands, picturing my mom’s bony fingers and my dad’s crooked thumb. I also add my aunt’s swollen knuckles and the burn mark on my palm.
A survivor’s hands.
With able fingers.
Strong wrists.
And a network of rooted souls.
The branches of my tree extend upward like arms reaching for the sun. I shade muscles into the arms: well-worked biceps capable of helping me up a
