Ripple (5 page)

There’s no anger to her words.

I clench my hands, desperate to hold it together. “How long are you going to do this?”

She tilts her head to the side and the light streaming in from their window catches the tears shimmering in her eyes. “Until I get my brother back.”

She spins around and walks away. I want to scream at her that I want him back as much as she does, that I never wanted to kill him and she doesn’t have to keep doing this to me, but I swallow the words.

One by one, the crowd disperses. I turn back to my locker, slam it shut, and stalk off in the opposite direction.

Happy birthday to me.

 

When I walk in the door at home, my gram is in her recliner, but her eyes are shut, and the steady sawing of her snoring fills the living room. I pause in the faded hardwood entry and watch her, my hands still gripping my heavy backpack.

Her gray hair is rumpled, her matching pink sweats and sweatshirt a little wrinkled, but she’s never looked more serene. I wish I could look that peaceful. Every limb, every muscle is relaxed.

I turn away and go to the kitchen, flinging open a few cupboards. Dinner. It will occupy my hands and my mind. I survey the options for a long moment, my arms crossed. I’m not in the mood to cook anything elaborate. I only want to get the meal over with, smile in a convincing way, and retreat to my room to wait out the hours until dusk. I grab beans, corn, some dry noodles, and stewed tomatoes. I’ll throw it all together with a little bit of frozen vegetables and call it soup. Gram loves soup.

I fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, twisting the dial to high. As I pull a ladle out of the drawer, a flash of pink catches my eye. I smile as big as I can manage at my grandmother as she shuffles toward me, hoping to hide the strain of my day at school.

“Lexi, honey, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You were sleeping, Gram.”

She frowns. “You shouldn’t have to cook dinner on your birthday.”

“I know, but I like cooking.” I dump the noodles into the pot and then turn back to look at her. “It’s okay, really. You can sit down. It’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

She shuffles away from me down the hall, her slippers swishing on the hardwood. I watch her until the bright pink disappears.

I twist back around and reach for the can opener, humming to myself as I open up the tomatoes and dump them into the pot. Everything about school sucks, but I find comfort in the normalcy of being at home. It’s so different from my intense, supernatural problems. When I’m here, I don’t have to watch my back.

I find the Italian seasoning jar in the cupboard and pour a bunch in. Then I lean a hip against the counter as I watch the soup come to a boil.

The shuffling returns. My grandmother’s face is hidden by a big box wrapped in plain brown paper. Her wrinkled, veiny hands grip it tightly.

My mouth goes dry. “I thought we agreed no gifts,” I say. I refuse to take anything but the gas money I so desperately need.

“This isn’t from me,” she says, placing it on the counter.

When I see the handwriting on the top, my mouth goes dry.

“It’s from your mother. She gave it to me before . . .” Her voice trails off, and then she clears her throat. “She wanted me to give it to you.”

I frown. “You’ve kept this for six years?”

“I was afraid it would upset you too much to have her old things. But you’re an adult now. If you want to see them, they’re yours.”

“Oh.” I stare at the package.

She puts a hand on mine. “I’ll finish up this soup. Why don’t you go to your room and open it in private?”

This time I don’t resist. I take the package and retreat to my room, closing the door behind me with a quiet click.

Six years, my grandmother has kept this.

I perch at the edge of my bed, on top of my mom’s old flowery comforter. It seems like a lifetime ago that I lived with her in a rental house on the other side of town.

I stare at the box for several long seconds. I’m afraid to discover what’s inside. What if it’s something stupid, like a jewelry box or stuffed teddy bear?

What I need is answers, something that tells me what I’m supposed to do, how I’m supposed to fix the lives I’ve ruined.

I reach out and tear the paper off. My heart beats louder in my ears. The box is heavy as I rip open the lid and reach in. My fingers find a scrap of paper, and I pull it out, unfolding it as I take in a long breath.

I don’t realize I’m crying until a dark splotch appears on the paper. It was supposed to be for my
sixteenth
birthday. The day everything changed. Did my grandmother know that and forget? Or did my mother not make it clear?

I read the note again.

My mom knew. She knew she was going to leave me, and she wrote this note, four years before I was supposed to read it.

Did she write it before or after she killed Greg?

I reach in and touch something hard and leathery, and as I pull it out, I realize it’s a book. A very old book.

My fingers trail over the dry, fading surface as I pull it onto my lap, the dust covering my jeans. It must be ancient. As I lift open the cover, the spine cracks.

The first aged, yellowed page is nearly blank, except for three words written in stark, perfect calligraphy:

I take in a jagged breath of air, then slide my finger over the page and flip it over.

The lump in my throat grows. This is it. This is how it all started. Two hundred and fifty years ago. My fingers tremble as they slide across the curled yellow paper. I flip the page.

I flip the page, but there are no more entries in Charlotte’s dark, angled cursive. I flip back and forth a few times, trying to figure out what happened.

The next dates are from late 1766. These entries are written in a different handwriting, lighter, curlier than Charlotte’s. I turn back to her entries and do the math.

Sixteen years. There’s a sixteen year gap. I hold my breath as my eyes scan the first entry.

It’s Charlotte’s daughter. Will’s daughter. Cursed to the same fate. My chest tightens and I stop midsentence. I flip several pages, until I spot a new script. This time, it’s eighteen years later. A new girl. Same story. She recaps the last couple of years on the first page. She tells about the first one she killed.

I flip back a few pages. Why did Charlotte stop writing? Did she die, or simply pass the book along to her daughter?

My fingers flip faster and faster as the writing changes again and again and again. I can’t bear to read the stories, not today. I expect they’ll all be painfully familiar.

Just as I am about to slam the book shut, I glimpse the final set of entries.

My mother’s handwriting stares back at me.

The entry isn’t dated on top, like the others, but rather scribbled to the side, as if done in haste. It’s over sixteen years old. I wasn’t even two yet when she wrote it.

I jerk back. It’s the year my father left us. It’s hard to breathe over the lump in my throat as I take in the words on the page.

I blink. My father. She’s talking about my father.

I grind my teeth hard in a desperate attempt to keep the tears at bay. The page is ripped on three of the four edges, as if it had once been longer, but this is all she was willing to save. All she was willing to share for all eternity, with the other girls who would eventually read the book.

I flip the page.