Oblivion (3 page)

Assuming she'd know where Varen had gone—that she was still in contact with him—Bruce had wanted Isobel to tell Varen how long he had to collect his vintage black Cougar, which he'd left parked outside the bookshop.
That's what the doctors said,
Bruce had added, betraying the fact that the March deadline had little to do with the car.

Along with so much else she'd wanted to say to Varen, she'd never gotten the chance.

Isobel scanned the obituary, searching for an answer to Bruce's death. It mentioned his military service as a Green Beret and the two local businesses he'd owned. Below that, Isobel skimmed over the names of a deceased wife and son and a surviving nephew who lived in New York. There were no other details.

Isobel shook her head, still not comprehending. “It says the funeral is tomorrow morning.”

Gwen shrugged her good shoulder. “Yeah. I, uh, didn't know if you . . . I dunno . . . wanted to go or something.”

Go? To the funeral?

“You mean skip school,” Isobel said.

“I can take us.”

“I can't.” Isobel held the paper out to Gwen.

How could she risk it? One more step beyond her parents' boundaries, one more instance of sneaking off, and her mom and dad would have her shipped off to reform school for sure. Or more likely, locked away in some mental facility.

Besides that, Bruce had never been shy about letting Isobel know he blamed her for everything that had happened to Varen, including his disappearance.
Especially
his disappearance. She doubted he would have even wanted her there.

Still, the old man had been Varen's best friend. Quite possibly his only true friend.

“So,” Gwen said with a sigh, “I know you're out here to get away and process and all that. I just figured this was important. I know I'm not supposed to call your house or cell, so if there's a possibility you might change your mind, you should let me know before last bell. Or if you want, I can just leave.”

Isobel looked down at the paper again, which Gwen had yet to take back. Tomorrow would be Friday the thirteenth.
Ironic,
she thought.

Then she had a new thought—one that drove the ache for Bruce's passing straight out of her, replacing it with a sickening stab of hope-laced fear.

Would Varen be there?

Isobel tightened her hold on the paper.

In the past, Varen had been able to astral project, to appear or even be invisible in places other than wherever his body slept. The first time he'd done so had been the day of their presentation for the Poe project. Halloween. Though everyone had been able to see and hear him then, he'd vanished after leaving class.

Did Varen still hold the power to project into this world? If he did, and if he somehow knew about Bruce's death, if he came to the funeral and saw
her
there—saw that after everything, she still—

“Yes,” Isobel said, before she could stop herself.

Gwen's face fell.

“I mean, no,” Isobel corrected, “I don't want you to leave, but yes, I change my mind. I want to go . . . to the funeral. Please.”

Gwen's expression softened. “Meet me by the door next to the gym right after second period. The one behind the stairs. No one's over there that early.”

Turning, Gwen began to walk away.

Through the cafeteria windows, Isobel saw Mikey using a rag to wipe away the smudge marks he'd made on the glass while Mr. Nott stood to one side, hands on hips.

“Wait,” Isobel called after her. “What about your arm? I thought you couldn't drive.”

Gwen stopped and spun to face her again. With her good hand, she pinched the fabric of her sling at the elbow and, straightening her fractured arm, wiggled her fingers.

“Drove myself here every morning this week,” she said, winking. “Arm's good. I'm just milking it.”

With that, Gwen nestled her elbow back into its cradle, whirled, and hurried to the cafeteria, skirt swishing.

Dropping the rag, Mikey scuttled to meet Gwen as she entered through the glass doors. They shared a kiss, and Isobel felt her insides ice over again.

She turned her back on the scene, folded her arms, and shivered against the cold.

Now that she was alone, Isobel's momentary hope of seeing Varen began to dim and fade.

Since her return from Baltimore, she had neither dreamed of him during the nights, nor seen him—or anything from the other side—during her waking hours. Not even through the mirrors that had once acted as windows between worlds.

Perhaps, she consoled herself, it would be best to think of attending Bruce's funeral as a way to move on. To bury not just a man, but the memories that surrounded him.

Her way of saying good-bye to Varen, instead of writing him notes he'd never read.

Her turn to let go.

She thought she could do that if she didn't see him.

And maybe . . . maybe even if she did.

Isobel wasn't allowed to catch a ride home from school with Gwen anymore—or with anyone, for that matter. Taking the bus was out of the question, but her father no longer picked her up either.

That task now fell to her mother.

Every afternoon Isobel met her mom in front of the school and climbed into the rear seat of the car as it idled in the line of waiting vehicles.

Muttering a quick “Hey,” she would then fork over her cell phone, which she wouldn't see until the following morning when her mom dropped her off again.

The only day her mother did not drive her straight home was Thursday, and although Isobel hated the weekly appointments, a part of her felt grateful for them too.

Her meetings with Dr. Robinson provided a barricade between her and her parents, a protective yellow tape barring them access to the evidence she held within. Because as long as Isobel kept her appointments, her mom and dad couldn't press her for answers. They had to back off, doctor's orders. All Isobel had to do in return was endure one hour every week of a stranger's tiptoeing inquiries.

During today's appointment, Dr. Robinson carried a clipboard to the black leather swivel chair across from Isobel. Her face still held that same kind-yet-uneasy smile. Isobel wanted to tell Dr. Robinson not to worry about keeping that expression in place, not to pull a cheek muscle over it. She knew the woman didn't know what to do with her, or what to tell her parents.

But Isobel said nothing. So far she'd done a good job of keeping her answers to various questions at a maximum of one to two sentences, well aware that anything she uttered in this woman's presence would end up on the doctor's word processor or yellow steno pad and, consequently, in her file.

Isobel's parents would undoubtedly be allowed to see her file at some point. And even though today was only her third session, she knew her mom and dad had to be petitioning for the reveal to happen sooner rather than later.

Three windows lined the wall behind the doctor's chair, their shades pulled snug to the sills. Sunlight peeked in around the edges, and its white glow ricocheted off Dr. Robinson's carefully arranged chestnut curls, giving her the ironic illusion of having a halo. A pair of floor lamps stood in opposite corners of the room, the light they offered far colder than that of the smothered sun, as unfeeling as the pavement-colored walls and the stiff, comfortless furniture.

“Your mom and I spoke on the phone yesterday about last week's appointment,” Dr. Robinson began. “Did she tell you?”

“No,” Isobel said. “But I didn't ask.”

“So I'm gathering that you and your mom don't often talk. Would you say that's pretty normal, or is this a recent development?”

“Recent,” Isobel said. “She and I know why we don't. Talk, that is.”

“Because of what happened in Baltimore,” Dr. Robinson said.

Isobel glanced up, wishing she had a stopwatch. She'd love to start clocking the amount of time it took during each session for the doctor's plaster smile to fade without her realizing. Today felt like some kind of record.

“Are we ready to discuss that?” Dr. Robinson asked. “You could start from whatever point feels most vivid.”

Isobel knotted her hands in her lap, fingers twisting together.
Everything
felt vivid. Knife sharp—as potent and cutting as if she'd only just awoken from those moments that had almost been her last.

“I told you,” Isobel said, dropping her gaze again. “I don't remember anything.”

“On the phone, your mother mentioned that you were involved with the boy who went missing last Halloween. She said you two were paired up for a project and that you—”

“You already knew all of that,” Isobel said.

“I'm sorry?”

“My mom told you to start asking about him, didn't she? I know she must have. So you can stop pretending that you didn't know about all of that from the very beginning. Before you ever started seeing me.”

“Okay,” Dr. Robinson said. “So let's assume for the moment that I
did
know from the onset of our sessions.”

“You did,” Isobel said, not sure why she wanted to do things this way today, why she wanted to challenge this person who was only trying to help her.

Maybe, she thought bleakly, the reason she wanted to push back was because she knew this woman
couldn't
help her, no matter how many framed degrees she had nailed to her wall.

Dr. Robinson tapped her pen against her chin. “So should I take this unusually strong approach of yours as an indication that you are ready to discuss his involvement?”

Isobel stiffened, scolding herself for not sticking to her usual formula of keeping her mouth shut. She wanted to backtrack, but now, thanks to her apparent need to be combative, she couldn't.

“He—doesn't have anything to do with what happened,” Isobel said.

Dr. Robinson pinched her lips, a clear sign that she wasn't buying it.

“As long as we're airing things out, eliminating pretenses here,” the doctor said, speaking more softly now, “if you truly don't remember anything that happened—like how you got that scar on your cheek, for instance—then how can you be so certain he
wasn't
involved? Your surety seems to suggest that you do know
something
. And . . . well, that's more than you've been letting on, wouldn't you agree?”

Isobel resisted the urge to look toward the door—to rise and run. She gripped her knees instead, forcing herself to sit tight. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“I think you're afraid.”

You don't know afraid,
Isobel thought, glaring straight at her.

“Listen,” Dr. Robinson said, “I know what happened had to have been bad. That's why you're here. I can help you cope. I understand that you might not feel ready to tell your parents what you've been through, and that's—”

“You would never believe me,” Isobel said, shocking herself with her own words because she knew that, essentially, she'd just admitted to hiding the truth. That she had been hiding it the whole time.

Dr. Robinson blinked and raised her eyebrows, seeming equally surprised. Given that the doctor never reacted to anything Isobel said, she knew she'd crossed a line. From this point on, she could forget about trying to retrace her steps. Or covering her tracks.

But then, how long had she hoped to hold out? How long could she stand to keep everything hidden? Like with the letter she'd written that morning, the pain, confusion, and chaos that consumed her seemed determined to eat its way out regardless. If she kept it in, tried to drown it, what would stop it from rising again? From becoming something she could no longer control? Her very own Noc.

“Isobel, do you know where Varen Nethers is?” Dr. Robinson asked, hand tightening around her pen, apparently deciding to go for broke.

Isobel's eyes welled. His name still had the power to do that to her, to summon tears. Her body, still awake, still breathing, seemed to remember how to interpret pain. Yet she didn't feel the emotion that should accompany the prickling sting, not while her soul remained vacuum-sealed.

One tear slipped free and trailed hot down her cheek, dividing in two the warning scar Pinfeathers had given her.

“Isobel?” she heard the doctor ask, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Where is Varen?”

Isobel had asked the question once herself.

And what had Reynolds told her?

She looked up to meet the doctor's gaze, knowing that he'd been right.

“Lost,” she said.

*  *  *

“Mom and Dad are going on a date tomorrow. Did you know that?”

Isobel's eyes flicked up from her algebra worksheet to her little brother, Danny, who sat across the kitchen table from her. He didn't meet her gaze but remained fixated on the shoe-box diorama in front of him, one plump hand shooting out to grab the glue stick at his side before vanishing behind the cardboard barrier again.

“It
is
Valentine's Day weekend,” Isobel replied, returning to the quadratic equation before her, searching for where she'd left off. She frowned, unable to concentrate on the numbers. She
hadn't
known about the outing.

Probably because their mom and dad hadn't wanted her to.

Since she'd come home from Baltimore, at least one of her parents had always been present in the house with Isobel. So if Danny was telling the truth about the date, then tomorrow would mark the first time both her mother and father would be together somewhere other than home. And a date on the Friday night before Valentine's Day meant that the two of them must have made plans and reservations in advance.

She already knew that there would be zero chance of their leaving her in charge of Danny like they used to. Most likely, their mom had arranged for one of her single friends to come over.