Spare and Found Parts (15 page)

“I am sorry, I am sorry,” she whispered. “But I have to get to the bottom floor. I have to.”

The ghosts could not hear her, she reminded herself; nobody would walk this way again. Not ever maybe. Her mother's gloves left a line through the scripture there. Women's names, men's names, everyone in between's names, children. How many of them had been children? She skipped over two missing stairs. It was beginning to make her dizzy, but she was four floors down now, and the spiral would end soon.

She stopped. The next gap in the stairs was too big for her to jump. It led into a mess of wood and wires. She looked up at the wall, and there it was:
WHERE IS CORA CRANE?
It screamed, violent black ash and memory and death:
WHERE IS CORA CRANE?
It was written
over and over, big and small. Nell gasped, clutching her ticking chest, her breath heavy, the weight of what she was doing arriving on top of her like brick. This building was sick, haunted. What place had she here? The walls were filth and cruelty; these were halls of disaster. How
dare
she come in here? She knew
nothing
of the world before,
nothing
of the epidemic. She stilled herself, battling dizziness.

Now was not the time to go soft. Her pulse was still thrumming. She was so close; everything she needed was just beyond her fingertips. Her stomach shifted, and her mouth went dry; she would have thrown up if she'd eaten at all in the last day. She heaved, and tears streamed from her eyes.

She held her head there for a long time. Rolling waves of nausea pulling a current through her, the scorch of the place all over her. When she finally stood up, she stepped to the wall and placed her face against her mother's name. The ash of it stayed on her cheek, like a kiss.

Where was Cora Crane? She was in the ground. She was in the ground.

There were so many stairs missing. Concrete and wood and wire, a greedy tangle where Nell's path should have been. The rail of the banister was stable, and she clambered across it every few steps, skillfully
and quickly. She didn't look back or around now, just square ahead. When she reached the next landing, she swore loudly, furious, agonized; there was a whole flight of stairs missing, crumbled, all gnashing debris and danger; she couldn't make it down the last floor. Could she?

The lights flickered, and the bulb above her hiccuped with a noise she did not like, not at all. A door behind her led doubtlessly to more wards. Tremors rose through Nell's body, and her hands shook. She clenched them together, and still they shook. Her ticking filled the whole corridor, echoing all the way up; something in her had ruptured, and her fearlessness was gone. Who had written her mother's name there? How dare they resurrect Nell's terror? How dare they undercut her power? She'd never had that wild confidence before, and now it was gone and she was a fragile sack of a girl with a machine for a heart and no friends and no courage and no mother, no mother—

It wasn't really that far. Nell leaned forward; there wasn't any way she could scale the wall. She could totally jump down there. Two flights and a couple of steps? Absolutely. If she kept her knees bent and protected her head. Nell swung one leg over the banister, then the other, with ease.

She reached her left foot into the air and withdrew
it. Then her right, hovering there, the pull of gravity against it. She blinked a bead of sweat out of her eye. She was rushing blood and ticking machine.
One more time/One more time.

“I can jump it,” she said to herself, then louder: “I can jump it.” And her voice carried down the filthy stairwell, reverberating and hollow.

It's not that far. It's not that far.

The lights blipped, and for a whole second they dimmed. When they rose again, Nell let go of the banister.

All she knew then was the pull and force of the fall. She was moving all wrong. It was too quick. When she landed, it was so much that her world caved into unconsciousness.

It was nice, for a moment. Quiet.

W
hen Nell woke up, the light around her was blinding, far from the sick attempt at illumination of the terrible stairwell. A smell of medical cleanliness was so strong it almost burned her nostrils.

Her eyes resisted it for a blurry moment but then drank it in. She sat up a little—she was on a table of some sort—and the pain washed over her like something holy and terrible. Maybe it was the dream again; she waited for the birds to erupt from her sternum, waited for gravity to pull against her. Her legs, her arms were thudding with fresh bruises. Then she looked at her arm, the bright estuary of the fire that rushed around her body. It was bandaged. Bandaged and stained with dark, ugly red. It didn't look as if it belonged on her person.

Oliver Kelly stood in front of her with his arms
crossed. On the walls limbs were mounted like prizes, a gallery rising behind him. Legs and arms and hands and feet, all there, ready for the picking. An orchard, ripe. Nell almost screamed; then she did scream. Or something like it. A groan meets a scream meets an exhale of frustration.

“Can I give you something to stop the pain? My Medi-Patches are probably far too strong, but they're all I have right now and—” said Oliver.

“Yes . . . anything . . . anything.” Nell's voice was barely her own. This was terrible. She clenched her eyes shut and focused on breathing in and out. Then something cool landed on her forearm, and a healing chill passed through her, the fire doused. The purple thumping of bruises chilled. The calm washed over her skin and down to her bones. How truly, surprisingly good. A smile crawled across her mouth, and then she giggled, an eruption. Where did it even come from? Oh, dear, Oliver looked very angry.

“What in the name of any living or dead god above us were you doing, jumping down an emergency staircase, Crane?” Oliver's face was covered in sweat; it gathered at his temples, the corners of his nose. He wore a crisp white lab coat and fine latex gloves, the fingers stained ever so slightly.

The colors around Nell felt brighter; the textures,
more pleasing. Even breathing in felt good. Oliver looked so funny, his face all scrunched up. Goodness, he was
furious.

“Is that
my
blood on your hands?” she said, trying to bottle down her laughter, still smiling a little. She felt so
relaxed
.

“Yes. You landed on your skeleton key.” Oliver frowned. “I managed to clean out the wound and treat it and bandage it; it'll scar, by the looks, but if you tend to it right, it won't get infected.”

“It doesn't even hurt anymore.” Nell touched the bandage, just to check. How silly that her key had cut her open. How unfortunate. The bandage was big, though. She pressed it with her finger. It wasn't numb or anything. It felt as if something had happened to it, but it didn't hurt. Nothing hurt. She looked farther down her arm, her eyes heavy, to the patch, small and pinker than her brown skin, as though it belonged on the skin of somebody else. The numbness radiated from it. The ticking in her chest slowed and got loud. Even that felt amazing. “Is this the thing? The good . . . the make nice . . . the thing—” Talking was hard.

“Yes. It's a mix of some different localized painkillers and antianxiety drugs. Medi-Patch, they call it. I use them in all of my surgeries and affixations. It's pretty strong; it might make you a little, eh, light-headed.”

“I feel great.” She sat on the bench a moment longer and poked at the bandage a little more. Oliver sat beside her on a tall stool.

“Look, why are you in here, Nell?”

Nell bit her lip a little.

“Well, I was—I was coming to see you.”

Yes. That sounded believable. Of course she was coming to see him. She was coming to see Oliver because she liked him; he was her friend. Her good old friend. And he liked her! Nobody ever liked her! He'd asked to court her almost twenty whole times and she'd said no over and over and he
always
came back! Oliver liked her, and he was moderately handsome—handsome-ish? Through the cheery cotton of the drugs she clumsily placed blocks of a plan on top of one another.

Oliver liked her a
lot
. When people like you, you can get them to do things for you. She looked around the room and marked her targets: legs, arms, some eyes from the case. No problem. She glanced at a slim door in the wall with spare white coats hung on the back of it. A closet? A closet. Perfect. No more than . . . four, five steps away? Perfect. Was this patch making her smarter? Or just feel smarter? Either way. This was worth a try.

“No, you weren't.” Oliver tried to hide his disappointment with a stern tone. But Nell could hear it,
hear how much he wanted it to be that way. Sick, he'd called her. Sick but he still liked her.

“Your backpack is over there. Empty, by the feel of it. Torch on your arm? Come on. You were looking for something. It's the crack of dawn. You're lucky I heard you.”

“Why are you even here?” Nell drawled. “Shouldn't you still be in bed? Or at the Bayou, making eyes at barmaids? Antoinette Fox is
so
pretty.”

Oliver huffed. “I'm working. Ruby's due here in an hour or so for her eye. If you hadn't been so wrapped up in your ridiculous fantasy plan, you'd know the procedure was today.”

His words were bright letters that hung in the air. Nell tried to reply but was caught, her brain slowed by how good she felt, how happy. Did Oliver have any music in here?

“Do you have any music in here, Oliver? Like in the Lighthouse? I'd really like to listen to some music.” She tried to get up, but he stopped her.

“Your pupils are blown, Nell. You need to stay here awhile.”

He had a very nice face.

“
You
have a very nice face. I feel perfectly fine. Whatever you gave me is—is lovely. Lovely.” Nell lay back for a moment. It was warm and cool, and her
thoughts were fantastically messy. Would he give her a few of these Medi-Patches to take home?

“Will you give me another one of these or . . . two or something, to take home?”

Oliver sighed deeply. “No, Nell. They're very strong. This one is going to have you out of action for a while. You shouldn't move around too much right now. When Ruby gets here, we'll take you home. You shouldn't have come here.”

“Lying is very hard. I didn't really come here to see you.”

Oliver breathed a sigh of undisguised defeat. Still, though, Nell couldn't stop smiling.

“I know. You came here to rob me.”

“I sure did.” The grin on Nell's face was effortless and stupid. “I'm a robber. A bandit. But still, I'm kind of glad you're here. Even if you did spoil my plan.”

“Your plan to break into my workroom and steal all the bits you need for the abomination you're going to cobble together. God, Nell. You're unbelievable.”

Oliver was getting angry. She liked that a bit. He was having all these emotions. How funny.

“I
am
unbelievable. But you're here! And you look so nice,” Nell said breathily. Her brain unfogged itself ever so slightly. She slid the fingertips on her right hand under the Medi-Patch and dislodged it just a little.
Means to an end, she thought. She leaned forward.

She would kiss him; then he would do whatever she said.

She dropped her eyelids, anticipating a connection, but Oliver's hand landed on her shoulder. Change of course. She lifted the patch onto her fingertips. He was distracted enough. He didn't see her.

“Nell, don't you dare do this to me right now.” His voice quivered.

“Why?” she asked softly, still in her role. His face was still close to hers. It was almost time.

“You're not in your mind. I couldn't unless you were . . . you. I have certain feelings about you, but—”

Nell said, “Hush now.”

She put her hand on the boy's neck. He softened. When she removed her fingertips, she left the small pink patch there; its potency immediately struck him.

“Oh, no,” he murmured, his eyelids drooping.

“I'm sorry,” Nell replied. She still felt giddy and joyous, but less foggy at once. She leaned on him a little and got off the table. Her arm still didn't hurt. Those patches
were
strong.

She grabbed both his hands. He didn't struggle.

They unsteadily wobbled over to the tall storage closet. Five, six steps: Nell had been right. Oliver slumped against the door.

“Oliver, you're going in here now.”

“Nell, I'll able to get out; there's no point; this patch doesn't have much left in it,” Oliver slurred, closing his eyes.

“That's okay; shush, it's fine. You're going in here, and I'm going to make sure you can't get out for a minute or two, and then when Ruby comes, she'll let you out.” Nell was laughing now. She couldn't stop.

“You're a nightmare, Nell.”

“I'm a monster, Oliver.”

Nell pushed him inside the closet. He stumbled but didn't fall, moaning a stoned protest. She shushed him, as though trying to comfort him. Then she closed the door and twisted the small key in the lock.

“Nell, don't do this.” His voice was muted. She ignored him. She placed the key on the table where she'd been laid out.

“Tell Ruby the key is on the table,” she called.

An echo of fresh pain rippled out from her arm. She had to move quickly. She took in the whole room for real now; she hadn't much time, but she had so many options. A cornucopia. So much potential.

Nell took what she pleased, ignoring the increasingly panicked beat coming from the storage closet.

When she left, she did not say good-bye, and she did not look back.

Y
ou are fourteen, and you are in
so
much trouble. Your father holds too tightly to your shoulder; your ticking is so intense that he must be able to feel it echo out from your bones to your skin. He's standing behind you. You feel like a child.

Oliver's face is blotchy; he's sniffling. He's holding his arm defensively, his hand clasped over the spot where—

Oh, you are in
so
much trouble. The parlor of the Kelly Funeral Home is austere and cool, the upholstery on the furniture covered in well-worn plastic, and the air smells too clean, a potpourri edge of roses on the air. Mrs. Marian Kelly mirrors your father's pose, standing behind her son, and is a boiling tower of rage; she is rattling a litany of fury at your father, but stubbornness and discomfort are clogging your ears. Everything
but your ticking sounds numbed out. You stare Oliver down, but he won't meet your eye. He knows what he did, and you're the one in trouble. You're the one forced to pull out an authentic-sounding apology. It's always you.

Your father is nodding along to Marian Kelly's tirade. She's bright blond with red painted lips and immaculate fingernails, thin as a rail with the blunt gaze of a woman who spends her day-to-day life up to her elbows in embalming fluid. She's so shrill right now, so angry that you wouldn't be surprised if she were responsible for one or two of the corpses that came through her business. A shock of blush blooms over her cheeks even now. “Kim hates these circumstances, Julian. She hates them, hates this, and when our son comes home with a second-degree burn on his arm because your uncontrollable brat can't keep her temper, look, it's not me that's going to crack and go public with all of this. It's her.”

A brat. How
dare
she?
He's
the brat; he can't keep his hands to himself; he's lucky that you just grazed him with the blowtorch and weren't holding the wrench at the time.

Go public with all this?

What's Kim Kelly going to do? Tell all her friends at the flower and fruit market that Nell Crane injured her
precious son during a class? Write it all over the city walls? His poxy mother doesn't even care what he did to earn the mild brush of fire at his shirtsleeve. Not a word of that.

You stare at Oliver harder. Come on, you disgusting little mutant. You will him: “Look me in the eye
.”
His gaze moves up from the floor along the length of your body. Your skin crawls as he lingers on your waist and up; he bites his lip; he's doing it again: He's thinking about you, and something then like flame bubbles up and clears your head, your mouth unstuck now. “Stop looking at me, Kelly!” you spit, like bile.

“Get over yourself, Crane!” he splutters right back at you, and you lunge forward. You'll scrape out his eyes, you'll—

“Enough!” roars your father, holding you back as you struggle. “Penelope, go and stand by the door!” He turns you around and gives you a push; you stomp away, fuming.

“See this?” Marian Kelly has transcended shrill and is almost squeaking. “You need to get her under control! You made a deal, and I can't be held responsible for what'll happen if things keeps going at this rate.”

“They'll grow out of it,” your father insists, as you fume, turning your back on the whole ridiculous conversation, on Oliver's vile gaping.

“
She
had better grow out of it,” Mrs. Kelly hisses, “and quickly. They're too old to be sparring like this. It was one thing when they were nine! I'll do what I can for Oliver, but Nell is the real problem here. Bring her around to it, or look, I can't promise you anything. It's in Kim's hands now. We just want what's best for our son. We've already given you so much, Julian.”

Your back is turned, but you can hear the defeat in your father's voice as he tells her he'll do everything he can to make all this easier, as he promises your good behavior, that you'll come around. The air is thick. He escorts you out; at least he doesn't make you say good-bye. You walk in silence for a few streets.

“Will you make this the last time, please, Nell?” he eventually asks.

“Oliver put his hand on me,” you snarl, familiar hot rage tears betraying you again. “So I showed him he shouldn't.” You bristle at the thought of his intentional graze of your waist, the curve of your hip as you leaned over him to retrieve the blowtorch just out of your reach. How dare he? How
dare
he?

“He's—he's just trying to show you he likes you.”

This is exceptionally difficult for your father.

“You can't, you—you can't behave this way, Nell. Your mother wouldn't want you to be like this. I knew her best, and she'd really like Oliver; he's such a bright,
ambitious lad. It was most likely an accident; you don't need to be so sensitive, always looking for excuses to fight with him . . .”

But you're not listening. He almost stops you in your tracks, conjuring the specter of your mother like this. You're not sure if he's ever done it before, ever brought her ghost into battle for him. That he might be right, too, is the worst thing. How furious would your mother be to see you making everyone's life so hard?

“If you can't do this for me, would you—would you at least try for her? Try to be—try to be friends.” He continues, and you are muted, all your gusto stolen out of you, your ticking softening to a different kind of shame. You walk in silence back up to the parklands, and with each step you resolve to leave that anger behind, to expel it from you, as though your mother was waiting at the door for you to come home.