Figment. Part 12

"Please, is my boyfriend okay?" Maybe I'm wrong, I hope feverishly. Please G.o.d, let me be wrong.

Then they carry Davis on a stretcher around the car. What I already know is confirmed.

The sheet is pulled up and over his head.

No! My hands fly up in front of my face to ward off the sight. "No! Davis! Davis!" I moan as they load me into the back of the ambulance.

NINETEEN.

My eyes flew open. My face was wet with tears, and my chest was heaving. He was dead. He'd been dead all along. I shoved the side of my hand into my mouth and bit down hard, drawing blood, willing myself to not scream aloud. Willing myself not to open my mouth and scream hysterically, over and over, just shriek huge, cleansing screams until the image of Davis's destroyed head was gone from my mind.

I rolled over, clutching my pillow to my stomach, feeling the horror and grief crash over me in a giant, heart-tearing wave. My beautiful, golden Davis, destroyed like a piece of roadkill. His head. His eyes. I would never live through this pain. Another wave took me. I couldn't move or think. All I could do was lie frozen to my bed, the grief holding me in its clasp, cradling me like a monstrous mother.

I stayed in my bed all day, ignoring my mother's pleas to come talk to her, watching the sunlight track on my wall from one end of the room to the other. My body was frozen still, but my mind spun. If Davis was dead, then who was I with all these weeks? A hallucination of my own making? No. He had been here. He had. My mind stubbornly refused to reconcile the two truths: Davis was dead. And Davis was here.

Finally, when I couldn't bear the small room any longer, I pulled on yesterday's wrinkled clothes and snuck past my mother out of the flat.

The dank London air was the same as always. Pigeons fought over an ice-cream wrapper. A street sweeper whirred by, leaving clean, wet gutters behind him. All of these things were normal, just like they'd been every day. But here I was, with everything different. I hardly trusted my own mind. I needed something, some kind of proof that reality was one way or the other.

Blindly, I made my way through the streets until I found myself on the promenade by the Thames, where Davis and I had spent so many mornings. The familiar striped awning of the coffee cart flapped in the wind whipping off the river.

Harold was standing beside the cart, his back to me, as he stacked newspapers in a neat pile. He turned around and smiled as I approached.

"Good afternoon, la.s.s." He wiped his hands on his ap.r.o.n. I saw his eyes take in my uncombed hair and rumpled clothes. "I've missed you these last few mornings. The usual for you, then?"

"Yes, thank you." So he knew me. I'd been here.

He ducked into the cart and started filling a tall coffee cup. Then he added milk and began filling a second cup.

"Harold, I have a question for you." I tried to sound calm, but the tension was already gripping me, making my voice shaky.

"What is it, then?" He handed me the coffees and an almond croissant in paper.

"Do you remember that boy I come with every morning? The blond guy?" I stared at the stack of the Times instead of meeting his face.

But when he didn't answer immediately, I raised my eyes.

He was staring at me in confusion. "And what boy would that be?"

"The blond guy. My boyfriend-the one I'm always with?"

Harold shook his head. "I've never seen you with any blond boy. Just by yourself. Every morning-two white coffees and an almond croissant-that's your order. But you've always come alone, my dear."

I turned and walked away rapidly without answering. I had been alone all this time? At the bench facing the river where we'd always stopped-I'd always stopped?-my fingers closed around the infinity charm I had once again put around my neck. It was my talisman from Davis. But something felt different. It was rougher, with sharp edges. I unfastened it, held it up, then dropped it in on the pavement with a gasp, my blood turning to ice-water.

For a long moment, I sat staring at the small object lying on the cobbles. It wasn't the smooth silver charm I had treasured all these weeks. I had pulled from my neck a twisted chunk of metal, blackened and dirty, but still with flecks of blue paint. A piece of Davis's car.

My mind flew back to that night when I had made Becca drive me to the site of the accident to look for the charm before I made her take me to Davis's house. Had I picked up this bit of metal and imagined-hallucinated?-that it was the infinity charm? That would mean the charm, the real charm, was lying in the dirt somewhere on the hillside, maybe covered over with leaves, or had been crushed into nothingness from the force of the crash.

My breath was coming in tight little gasps now, and my hands were icy-cold and sweaty. I dropped my head into my arms so I wouldn't have to look at that sad piece of metal lying at my feet. I tried to corral my racing thoughts. Had I actually been imagining Davis so vividly that I thought he was real? I'd blocked out the memory of his death and taken him, in my mind, to London? It was fantastic, too incredible to believe, and yet, the proof was staring me in the face.

But still. Still, there was one more thing. One more sign he'd been here-really himself. I turned and ran back up the steep streets, busy with afternoon commuters, panting as my feet slapped the sidewalk rhythmically. Back through the courtyard, back into the apartment lobby. I darted into the elevator and pressed P.

As the doors slid open, I stepped out into the familiar, dusty wasteland at the top of the building. Everything was as I'd seen it last-the sheets of plastic, stacks of lumber, and buckets. I tiptoed to the corner where Davis and I had spent so many afternoons.

The corner was empty, but my eyes went straight to the heart I'd drawn around our footprints a few days earlier. It was still there, gleaming on the dusty floor, but now-my heart clutched, and I bent over to look more carefully-now there was only one set of footprints. My own. Nothing else. Beside them, the dust lay thick and undisturbed.

I staggered backward as if I'd received a blow, almost reeling against the wall. My hands found purchase on the dirty windowsill, and I clung to it as if it were a life raft. It was true, then. I was crazy. Davis was dead. He'd never been here in London. I'd done it all myself-the Secret Cinema, the London Eye. The beach at Brighton. I felt suddenly, horribly alone, and I pressed my forehead to the window and sobbed silently.

Making my shaky way to the elevator, I stopped and looked back. I wouldn't be coming here again. In my mind, I silently said good-bye to the beautiful memories of Davis and me rolled together in the gray blanket, laughing, our heads pillowed on his backpack.

I let myself into the flat, which was blessedly empty. My parents were both still out. In my room, I pulled off my clothes numbly and turned the shower on as hot as it would go. I climbed in and let the water pound my neck and stream over my head. I felt calmer now. The frantic desperation of before was gone.

Here are the facts, I told myself. Davis died. You imagined him here in London. Then you realized the truth.

I raised my head at the thought and rubbed the water from my eyes. I'd realized the truth . . . I had forced the dream about the pa.s.sword and the accident. I had dredged it up from the depths of my own memory. And I had shown myself, over and over, that Davis wasn't here. I'd done it all on my own. Was that something a crazy person would do?

Slowly, I shut off the water and wrapped a towel around my head, still thinking hard. Grasping the reality of my situation, even if belatedly, just didn't seem like something a crazy person would be able to do. If I were really crazy, I'd just keep going on thinking that Davis was real and that we were together. My dreams had saved me, in a way. If it weren't for the last nightmare, I might never have realized he was dead. But the dreams had come from inside my own head. I had saved myself. I had done it, and with no help from anyone else.

With a sudden feeling of lightness, I wrapped a towel around myself and hurried into my room. The chunk of metal sat on my bedside table, illuminated by the fading sunset. I picked it up, seeing it for what it really was. It wasn't the charm, but it was the last thing I had from Davis. I'd kept it with me like a talisman all these weeks, and maybe in some magical way, it had brought Davis back to me for just a little longer.

I sank down onto the edge of the bed, turning the piece in my fingers. In a sense, I thought, Davis had been here with me. He had shown me so many new and wonderful things in this amazing city. We'd done what we always said we would-we'd seen the world outside of Connecticut. I had the memories we'd created these last few weeks, and I had them forever. It didn't matter, I realized, that Davis hadn't been here in body. He'd been here in spirit, and, for that, I was grateful.

I stood up, unwinding the towel from my wet hair and pitching it onto the bed. I took a deep breath. I felt cleansed somehow, refreshed, and not just by the shower. I stood by the window, looking out at the skyline lit golden by the sunset. The sky was streaked with shades of rose, big banks of puffy clouds tinged with purple and gold riding on the horizon. Davis was never going to have a future, I thought to myself. But I still did. And I had to help myself now.

I turned back to my bed and pushed my hand under the mattress. I half expected to encounter nothing. Maybe Jeremiah had just been a figment of my imagination, also. But my fingers found the edge of the note I'd shoved under there earlier. I pulled it out gingerly. It looked the same. I laid it on my dresser beside the chunk of metal. The blue writing glared up at me, Jeremiah's demands for the pa.s.sword. I was seeing Davis's infinity charm for what it really was. Now I had to take care of Jeremiah.

TWENTY.

I ventured out of my room later that evening. My mind felt crystalline-clear, and the first thing I needed was help. Jeremiah was too much for me. I found my father standing at the kitchen counter, cutting up red peppers. He must have just gotten home from work, because the sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled up, and his reading gla.s.ses were pushed up on the top of his head.

He glanced up as I came in. "Hungry?" he asked.

I nodded and sat down at the table. But a sense of restraint still hung in the air. Except for hugging him that night at the gallery, my dad and I had barely spoken since my parents had told me about Davis's death. I watched his white-shirted back, his silver head bent over the counter as he slid the peppers into a pan waiting on the stove. Hot oil sizzled and popped, and, in a moment, the kitchen was filled with their aroma.

I had been resolved just a few minutes earlier, but now I felt pinned to my chair, weighed down by the weeks of silence between us. My father, still with his back to me, took a package of sausages from the refrigerator and sliced open the wrapping. I suddenly remembered a long-ago weekend when my mother had gone away to visit relatives. I was about ten, and my father had declared that we needed plenty of snacks to get us through the next two days. We'd loaded up on green limeade, Milky Way bars to be frozen at home, soft microwave pretzels, yellow squeeze mustard, and some disgusting sliced-steak product called Steak-umms-a veritable feast to my pre-adolescent eyes. Then we'd holed up on the couch, eating our treats and watching old Laurel and Hardy films.

It hadn't always been this way, this coldness, and something about those old memories gave me the courage to say, "Dad. I have to talk to you about something important."

He stopped slicing the sausages and turned around, his eyebrows knit in concern. "What is it, Zoe?"

I looked down at the tabletop and rubbed away a little drop of oil there. "I'm in trouble."

I heard my father gasp, and I looked up to see the blood draining from his face. He sat down at the table as if his legs had gone weak. "Are you telling me the truth?"

I stared at him quizzically. "Well, yeah."

"How did this happen?" Then he held out a hand to stop me. "No, I know how it happened, of course. Who is the boy?" He looked like was ready to pa.s.s out. "Have you told your mother? Zoe, this is going to kill her."

"I came to you first," I said, still puzzled. "I don't know why. I guess I thought it might be too scary for her. Dad, did you . . . know about Jeremiah?"

"No, of course not. Not until you told me just now." Now he was looking puzzled.

"Told you what?" I asked.

He looked at me oddly. "That you're pregnant, of course."

"Dad! I'm not pregnant!" I gaped at him. I shook my head, trying to regain my equilibrium. "Dad. I'm in serious trouble, but not like that. I need your help."

He leaned back in his chair. "Oh. Okay. Okay, I'm listening."

I stared down at the table and spilled out the whole story: my realization that Davis was dead, the hacking scheme, and the frozen account and the pa.s.sword. Jeremiah and his threats. The time that was running out before he came for me. When the flood of words had exhausted itself, I gingerly looked up.

My father was white around the nose. His lips were folded into a straight line. "Zoe, you have finally seen what I've known all along." He slapped his hand on the table suddenly, and I jumped. "That boy got you into a dangerous situation. He was trouble, just like we always told you." He was getting red now. "He had no regard for your safety. None! He-"

Then the shriek of the smoke detector interrupted him, and I suddenly became aware of the smoke wafting through the air. My father jumped up to turn off the burning sausage and peppers.

When he sat back down, he seemed to have gotten control of himself again. He stared past me at the wall. "I'll help you," he said finally. He shook his head. "But I'm disgusted to be cleaning up Davis's mess."

Tears welled up in my eyes. "Dad, I'm sorry." I looked down at an old burn mark on the tabletop.

He looked right at me, possibly for the first time in years. "You know Davis is dead?"

I nodded. "Yes, Dad. I do." I tried to sound as calm and sane as I knew how, but my voice broke a little. "I was really messed up for these last few weeks. But I know the truth." I leaned forward. "Jeremiah is the problem now." I thought of the man's intent gaze. "He's not playing around."

My father nodded slowly, but something seemed to be holding him back. "Zoe." He paused. "Are you sure this Jeremiah isn't part of your imagination? Like Davis was?"

Anger welled up in me immediately at the suggestion, but with an effort, I quelled it. "He's not," I said quietly. We looked at each other, both aware we had reached an impa.s.se.

"Wait." I got up and ran down the hall to my room, grabbing the note from under my mattress. Back in the kitchen, I showed it to my father.

I watched his fury grow as he examined the note. He made as if to crumple it up, then stopped himself. "If anyone thinks he can threaten you like that . . ." His voice was tight. He pushed back his chair, then got up and dropped the note into a Ziploc bag from the kitchen drawer. He sealed it carefully. "I'll get on the phone to Jack O'Reilly."

My father disappeared down the hall, and I fell back limply in my chair, my mind like a wrung-out sponge. I felt a tremendous relief, as if I'd been carrying around a huge stone and could at last set it down. After a long, blank time, my father reappeared and sat down opposite me again. "Jack's going to make a few calls. It's going to be okay-a bit of a s.h.i.t-storm for a little while, but okay."

I nodded and made to push back my chair. "I think I need to lie down for a bit."

"Zoe, wait." My father put out a hand. He cleared his throat as I sank back down into my chair. "I-ah-I know I haven't made any of this easy for you these last few weeks, but I'm here for you. No matter what. I hope you know that."

I stared at him, then nodded. I did know that, I realized now. But these were not common words coming from my father.

"We tried to tell you . . ." He tugged nervously at his tie. "Do you remember any more about after the accident?"

I shook my head.

"You were frantic when you woke up. You asked for Davis immediately. Your mother and I told you he was dead. But your mind refused to accept it." His face was creased with pain at the memory. "You were hysterical. You tried to break out of the hospital room. You ripped the hair from your head."

I swallowed and touched the side of my scalp, where the scabs had been.

"They had to sedate you when you clawed your eyes. And when you woke up, you still wouldn't believe he was dead. Nothing we could say would convince you."

Gooseflesh rose on my arms.

My father ran his fingers along the edge of the table. "We hoped that taking this trip we'd planned might be the best thing for you. A total change of scenery, a chance for you to process your loss." He sighed. "All we ever wanted was to help you."

I stared at his earnest, strong-jawed face. I'd never noticed how our eyes were so much the same. Maybe it was because we hadn't looked at each other much for the last few years. "Dad." I looked down at the napkin I'd been quietly shredding all this while. "I-I . . ." I struggled to get the words out. His words were genuine, and I could see that, and if he was willing to try for a fresh start, I was, too. "I know Davis was a screw-up sometimes. He did dumb things. I can see why you guys didn't like that. But he always had good intentions. He was always thinking of me. And-" Here my breath caught, and I had to force the words out from my aching throat. "I loved him."

The tears poured out then, in a hot flood. I bowed my head into my hands and sobbed. But in an instant, I felt the touch of a hand on my head and felt myself drawn into my father's embrace. We sat there a long time as I cried, my cheek against his clean, crisp shirtfront, and his arms around me.

TWENTY-ONE.

"What about this bag, Zoe?" My mother peered into the shop window the next afternoon and pointed to a cyanide-green affair bristling with snaps and buckles.

"I'm not sure that's really me, Mom." I steered her gently away. We were out, ostensibly looking for a new purse for me, but really getting out of the flat while my father went to meet with Interpol agents about Jeremiah. Neither of us wanted to sit around waiting for the phone to ring. My stomach had been in knots all morning, but the heavy ball of dread was gone. I wasn't alone anymore, and I wasn't hiding anything. "Here, I'm dying for some ice cream." I led my mother over to a cart selling fancy popsicles.

"Oh, chili-chocolate." My mother studied the blackboard scrawled with the flavors. "Is that overly spicy?" she asked the smiling blond vendor.

"Can I taste the blackberry-mint?" I asked. But the words were barely out of my mouth when I spotted a familiar skinny figure just down the crowded shopping street. I dropped my tasting spoon. "Mom, I'll be right back."

I hurried toward Oliver just as he ducked into a nearby shop doorway. "Oliver!" I called, turning into the guitar shop. A man was sitting on a stool near the entrance, plucking a steel six-string. Oliver was fiercely studying a beautiful Gibson hung on the wall by the cash register. "Oliver," I said again. He didn't acknowledge me.

"Hey." I came up beside him.

He looked over as if just noticing me. "Oh, hi." His hair was even more rumpled than usual, and his worn plaid shirt was missing several b.u.t.tons.

I spoke in a rush. "Oliver, I'm really sorry about the carnival and the, ah, you know-"

He held up his hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm sorry, too." He stared fixedly back at the Gibson-so as not to meet my eyes, I suspected.