On the fourth night, as we’re sitting there on the couch after I’ve spent the past hour pacing around with Web yelling in my ear, Christian reaches over and draws my feet into his lap and starts massaging them. I bite back a laugh, because I’m ticklish, then a groan at how good it feels. It’s nice, the feeling that we’re with each other in this, that we’re partners and we’re going to make it through somehow.
“I think I’ve gone deaf,” I say, a running joke between us every time Web suddenly stops crying and falls asleep.
“When did Billy say she’d call, again?” Christian replies, another joke we’ve been telling often, and I laugh.
But something inside me squirms uncomfortably, because all of this feels like a scene we’re acting out of someone else’s life with someone else’s kid, and all we’re doing here is playing house.
Christian’s fingers go still against my ankle. He sighs.
“I’m beat.” He gets up and crosses to the bedroom where Web is sleeping. “I’ll take the first shift. Good night, Clara.”
“Good night.”
He goes into his room and shuts the door. I flip channels for a while, but nothing good’s on. I turn the TV off. It’s early, only nine o’clock, but I wash my face and dress for bed. I check on Web one last time. I lie down.
I dream of Tucker. We’re in his boat on Jackson Lake, stretched out on a blanket in the bottom of the boat, tangled up in each other’s arms, soaking up the sun. The way things used to be. I’m completely at peace, my eyes closed, almost asleep but not quite. I press my face into Tucker’s shoulder and breathe him in. He plays with the short, fine curls at the base of my neck—the baby hair, he calls it. His other hand moves up from my hip to that tender spot below my arm.
“Don’t you tickle me,” I warn, smiling against his skin.
He laughs like I dared him and drags his fingers over the back of my arm, feather lightly, sending a jolt all down my body. I bite his shoulder playfully, which gets another laugh out of him. I raise my head and gaze into his warm blue eyes. We both try to look serious, and fail.
“I think we should stay here, Carrots,” he says. “Forever.”
“I totally agree,” I murmur, and kiss him. “Forever sounds good.”
A shadow passes over us. Tucker and I look up. A bird sails overhead, a huge crow, larger than an eagle, bigger than any other bird I’ve ever seen. It turns in a slow circle high above us, a blot against the blue sky.
Tucker turns to me with worry in his eyes. “It’s only a bird, right?”
I don’t answer. Dread moves like ice freezing in my veins as another bird joins the first, circling, weaving through the air above us. Then another joins, and another, until I can’t keep track. The air seems colder, like the lake could freeze beneath us. I can feel the birds’ eyes on us as they turn, the circle tightening.
“Clara?” Tucker says. His breath comes out in a puff of cloud.
I stare upward, my heart pounding. They’re waiting for the right moment to swoop down, to tear into us with their sharp beaks and claws. To rip us apart.
They’re waiting.
The way vultures will circle a thing that’s dead or dying. That’s how they’re looking at us.
“Oh, well,” says Tucker, shrugging. “We always knew this was too good to last.”
The next morning, Christian and I do dishes. We’re standing shoulder to shoulder at the sink, me washing, him drying, when he says out of the blue, “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Okay,” I say warily.
He goes out of the room for a minute, and when he comes back, he’s holding a black-and-white composition notebook.
Angela’s journal.
“You went back,” I say, astonished.
He nods. “Last night. I flew back to the Garter. I found it in a trunk in her bedroom that didn’t burn.”
“Why?” I gasp. “That was so dangerous! Billy said there are Black Wings there, looking. You could have been—”
Caught. Killed. Taken off to hell. And I would never have known what happened to him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want her journal to fall into the wrong hands. I mean, who knows what Angela wrote about us in here? Or about the congregation? And I just wanted to … do something. I have so many questions. I thought maybe this would give us some answers. I was up all night reading it.”
“So did you find what you were looking for?” I ask softly, not sure whether to be furious at him for taking such a risk or relieved that he came back unharmed.
His mouth twists. “There’s a lot of stuff in there. Research. Poems. A detailed account of all Web’s soiled diapers. A list of songs Anna sang him to get him to sleep. And Angela’s thoughts, how she felt about things. She was tired, and angry, and scared, but she wanted what was best for Web. She was making plans.”
And now she won’t get to carry any of them out, I think. I don’t know exactly where Angela is, not exactly, but I do know something of hell. It’s cold and colorless. Bleak. Full of despair. I get a tightness in my chest, imagining Angela in that place, the hopelessness she must feel. The pain.
“And there was a last entry, written down fast,” Christian says. “She got a text from Phen that night. He warned her that the Black Wings were coming. She only had a minute to hide Web, but Phen gave her that minute.”
So Phen’s not all bad, is what he’s saying. But somehow that doesn’t make me feel much better about him. Because he was the one who got her in this mess to begin with.
“Anyway,” Christian says. “I wanted to tell you.”
He holds the journal out to me, an offering, but I don’t take it. I don’t know how I feel about reading her diary now that she’s gone. That’s her private stuff.
“I’ll put it on the nightstand,” he says. “If you want to read it.”
“No, thanks,” I reply, although I’m curious.
We go back to doing dishes, silent now, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Christian’s thinking about the journal, something that Angela must have written, something about Web and family. After a while he says, “Do you ever think about that day in the cemetery?”
He means do I ever think about the kiss. Do I ever think about us.
I don’t think I can handle this conversation. Not right now. “You’re the mind reader. You tell me,” I joke weakly.
“I think I’ve gone deaf,” I say, a running joke between us every time Web suddenly stops crying and falls asleep.
“When did Billy say she’d call, again?” Christian replies, another joke we’ve been telling often, and I laugh.
But something inside me squirms uncomfortably, because all of this feels like a scene we’re acting out of someone else’s life with someone else’s kid, and all we’re doing here is playing house.
Christian’s fingers go still against my ankle. He sighs.
“I’m beat.” He gets up and crosses to the bedroom where Web is sleeping. “I’ll take the first shift. Good night, Clara.”
“Good night.”
He goes into his room and shuts the door. I flip channels for a while, but nothing good’s on. I turn the TV off. It’s early, only nine o’clock, but I wash my face and dress for bed. I check on Web one last time. I lie down.
I dream of Tucker. We’re in his boat on Jackson Lake, stretched out on a blanket in the bottom of the boat, tangled up in each other’s arms, soaking up the sun. The way things used to be. I’m completely at peace, my eyes closed, almost asleep but not quite. I press my face into Tucker’s shoulder and breathe him in. He plays with the short, fine curls at the base of my neck—the baby hair, he calls it. His other hand moves up from my hip to that tender spot below my arm.
“Don’t you tickle me,” I warn, smiling against his skin.
He laughs like I dared him and drags his fingers over the back of my arm, feather lightly, sending a jolt all down my body. I bite his shoulder playfully, which gets another laugh out of him. I raise my head and gaze into his warm blue eyes. We both try to look serious, and fail.
“I think we should stay here, Carrots,” he says. “Forever.”
“I totally agree,” I murmur, and kiss him. “Forever sounds good.”
A shadow passes over us. Tucker and I look up. A bird sails overhead, a huge crow, larger than an eagle, bigger than any other bird I’ve ever seen. It turns in a slow circle high above us, a blot against the blue sky.
Tucker turns to me with worry in his eyes. “It’s only a bird, right?”
I don’t answer. Dread moves like ice freezing in my veins as another bird joins the first, circling, weaving through the air above us. Then another joins, and another, until I can’t keep track. The air seems colder, like the lake could freeze beneath us. I can feel the birds’ eyes on us as they turn, the circle tightening.
“Clara?” Tucker says. His breath comes out in a puff of cloud.
I stare upward, my heart pounding. They’re waiting for the right moment to swoop down, to tear into us with their sharp beaks and claws. To rip us apart.
They’re waiting.
The way vultures will circle a thing that’s dead or dying. That’s how they’re looking at us.
“Oh, well,” says Tucker, shrugging. “We always knew this was too good to last.”
The next morning, Christian and I do dishes. We’re standing shoulder to shoulder at the sink, me washing, him drying, when he says out of the blue, “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Okay,” I say warily.
He goes out of the room for a minute, and when he comes back, he’s holding a black-and-white composition notebook.
Angela’s journal.
“You went back,” I say, astonished.
He nods. “Last night. I flew back to the Garter. I found it in a trunk in her bedroom that didn’t burn.”
“Why?” I gasp. “That was so dangerous! Billy said there are Black Wings there, looking. You could have been—”
Caught. Killed. Taken off to hell. And I would never have known what happened to him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want her journal to fall into the wrong hands. I mean, who knows what Angela wrote about us in here? Or about the congregation? And I just wanted to … do something. I have so many questions. I thought maybe this would give us some answers. I was up all night reading it.”
“So did you find what you were looking for?” I ask softly, not sure whether to be furious at him for taking such a risk or relieved that he came back unharmed.
His mouth twists. “There’s a lot of stuff in there. Research. Poems. A detailed account of all Web’s soiled diapers. A list of songs Anna sang him to get him to sleep. And Angela’s thoughts, how she felt about things. She was tired, and angry, and scared, but she wanted what was best for Web. She was making plans.”
And now she won’t get to carry any of them out, I think. I don’t know exactly where Angela is, not exactly, but I do know something of hell. It’s cold and colorless. Bleak. Full of despair. I get a tightness in my chest, imagining Angela in that place, the hopelessness she must feel. The pain.
“And there was a last entry, written down fast,” Christian says. “She got a text from Phen that night. He warned her that the Black Wings were coming. She only had a minute to hide Web, but Phen gave her that minute.”
So Phen’s not all bad, is what he’s saying. But somehow that doesn’t make me feel much better about him. Because he was the one who got her in this mess to begin with.
“Anyway,” Christian says. “I wanted to tell you.”
He holds the journal out to me, an offering, but I don’t take it. I don’t know how I feel about reading her diary now that she’s gone. That’s her private stuff.
“I’ll put it on the nightstand,” he says. “If you want to read it.”
“No, thanks,” I reply, although I’m curious.
We go back to doing dishes, silent now, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Christian’s thinking about the journal, something that Angela must have written, something about Web and family. After a while he says, “Do you ever think about that day in the cemetery?”
He means do I ever think about the kiss. Do I ever think about us.
I don’t think I can handle this conversation. Not right now. “You’re the mind reader. You tell me,” I joke weakly.
