Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(28)

With all the pieces laid before us, a story begins to take shape.

"It's Olivia," Jake says. "It has to be."

I gather a handful of pebbles and drop them one at a time off the bridge. I can't see them fall, can't see them hit the water, but the ripples they make-I can see those.

"I know you hate her, Elle, but think about it."

"Is it possible to want to save someone and knock someone's face in all at the same time?"

"You tell me," Jake says. "Is it possible?"

"Seems so. What does that mean about Javan? If what I saw took place years ago, it's possible he's still in the pit, right? We don't have to worry about him coming to Stratus?"

"Canaan's fairly certain he's in hell."

The next question makes my hands sweaty. I dust the remaining pebbles from my hands and watch as the river below is freckled with ripples. Uncountable.

"And the woman, then, that Olivia spoke to at the hospital, that was my mom. Olivia was with her when she died."

Jake tosses his own rock into the water. Big, round. It makes a splash.

"We don't have all the pieces yet. That might be too big a leap to make."

"But if you were guessing . . ."

His words are soft, but they still cut. "It's not a bad guess, Elle."

I stare at the skies over Bachelor, wondering just what the Sabres' role is in all this. Was it just to unearth the emptiness of Mom's grave? That's why they came all this way?

"You know, for a second I let myself believe Mom was out there somewhere. I conjured up this reality that she'd survived somehow, and we'd find her." I can't help fingering the necklace hanging against my chest. "But if that was my mom Olivia was talking to at the hospital, then I've looked out through her eyes. I've felt the sickness inside her."

Jake leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead. "I'm so sorry."

I lay my head on his shoulder. The bridge is warm beneath our legs and our breathing resolves into the same rhythm. We sit like that for a long time. Until the summer eve is wrapped around us, and the trees are stained pink with the rays of the setting sun. How easy it would be to ignore the ugly parts of this world. The broken parts.

"Jake?"

"Hmm?"

"If my mom's dead, what happened to her body?"

The sun dips below the horizon and the world turns to shadow.

"I don't know."                       
       
           



       25



Brielle





Helene's sitting at the desk just beyond the small waiting area when I enter the dance studio on Tuesday. She's lovely in a pale-pink leotard and tights, her auburn hair pulled up like mine. She's been working alongside me for months, but it's still strange to see her here. So comfortable in the Terrestrial, so graceful and light on her feet.

I'll be sad when she's assigned elsewhere.

"Isn't your class this afternoon?" I ask.

"I got a call from Miss Macy this morning. She needed to switch. Dentist appointment or something."

"Ugh."

I drop my bag next to a white folding chair and slide out of my boots and into my ballet slippers.

"How are you holding up?" she asks.

I shrug. "Managed to avoid Dad again this morning, so that's a plus. Have you . . . been in touch with Virtue?"

We're alone, but I keep my voice quiet. Helene leans forward, her hands cupping her chin.

"I haven't," she says. "But he's near. I've heard him. Seen him. Elle, I'm fairly certain I know-"

We're interrupted by the Sadler twins. Four years old, fuzzy red hair, and more freckles than Pippi Longstocking.

"Hey, girls!" Helene says. "You're up early!"

"Do you mind if I drop them off now?" their mother says. "I got called into the office. I'll be back on time, I promise."

"Go ahead," I tell her. "I was just going to warm up. You girls wanna come?"

Tia and Pria squeal.

"Can we play with the wings?" Tia asks.

"Of course," I say, waving Mrs. Sadler away and shooing the twins into the studio.

"We'll talk later," Helene says.

I nod, my mind a mosaic of mismatched thoughts: Virtue, the absent Miss Macy, Jake, Kaylee and the community center, the Sadler twins and butterfly wings in purple and green.

And Dad. There was another curse-laden message on the answering machine this morning from Dad's second-in-command. His drinking has to be taking a toll on the business. His truck was gone when I left, so I can only hope he made it to work today.

The girls raid the dress-up clothes and I settle into first position. Helene already has music playing. It's our warm-up CD-all classical and soft. I take to the floor and lose myself for a bit. The halo seems to agree with my need to forget and warms me through as I lift and stretch, dancing across the floor.

At one point I catch Jake's eye across the street. He's chatting with Bob and the guys, chewing on a doughnut. He must be on a break. I stop and wave. They all wave back.

When the rest of my class arrives, I'm ready. Focused on them. Everything else will wait. It'll have to.

Kaylee arrives just as I'm shooing the last of my girls into the waiting area. She drops into a folding chair just outside the door looking serious, which is unlike her.

"Hey, Kay. You all right?"

"You get my text?"

"No, I've been doing this all morning," I say, gesturing to a floor full of sparkly material scraps, feathers, and straight pins on little cushions.

She squints at the mess. "Reupholstering peacocks?"

"Costume adjustments for the summer dance recital." I wad the turquoise and fuchsia scraps into a ball and drop cross-legged before her. "So what's up?"

"Marco Mysterioso crashed on my couch last night."

I'm suddenly awake. "Oh good. Oh yeah. We were worried. How did that . . . Did he call you or something?"

"Showed up at Jelly's last night all hot and bothered." I must've made a face, because Kaylee quickly rephrases. "All sweaty and rambling."

"Yeah, he, um, he had a shock."

"You wanna tell me about the bracelet?" she asks.

And like that, my leotard's too snug and my tights are itchy. The world has become entirely too uncomfortable. "Wh-What did Marco say?"

"Nothing coherent. He was rambling. Delia took pity on him-I think she's crushing on him, to be honest."

"Delia?"

"Yeah, well, in a platonic, he's-a-cute-kid kind of way. She's always liked the tall, thin ones. Anyway, she force-fed him coffee and gyros, but he was going on and on about darkness and evil deeds, so she bundled him into her car and took him away from the customers. When I got home last night, he was curled on the corner of the couch staring at that journal he's had surgically attached to his hand."

"It's Ali's," I say quietly.

"I figured. Look, he said something else when I got home."

"About the . . . about my . . . bracelet?"

"He said it made him see things."

My pulse pounds against my temples, against the skin of my throat. I feel it in my hands and feet.

"Did he say what he saw?" I ask, my voice rough and shaky.

"You. On fire."



Kay lives with her Aunt Delia. Her parents live in town, but they're, well, lost souls, I guess. When we were younger, elementary school age, they were in and out of jail so often Delia set up a room for Kay at her place. Eventually she just never moved out.

Her parents are around-always at birthday parties and family affairs, usually inappropriately clothed or looking for cash-but they can't seem to get it together enough to really be there in any permanent way.

So, Kay has Delia.

Delia's given her a home and stability.

And Kay . . . well, Kay's given Delia someone to mother and quite a lot of messes to clean up.

The two of them live in a little house off of Main on a grassy lot between the train station and the high school. Years and years ago the place was painted bright green. It's faded now, the paint peeling away from the wood siding. But instead of the house looking run-down, it has a homey, broken-in feel. The front door is my absolute favorite. The green walls chip and peel, the weather doing its thing, and Delia hardly notices, but every single year she repaints that front door. It's bright blue, sky blue really. Like all those pictures you see of houses in Greece. Whenever I stand on her front doorstep I feel like I'm traveling to far-off places. Exotic places. With Kaylee as my tour guide.

And then there are the wind chimes. Metal and wood, both extravagant and trite-they hang in droves from the eaves around the house. When I was little I had trouble falling asleep at Delia's. Between the trains shaking the house and the chimes responding with their exuberant jangle, I took to sleeping with earbuds jammed in my ears.

Once, though, when Delia noticed my struggle, she plopped down on Kaylee's bed and told us a story about pixies and their jingling songs. I didn't struggle so much after that.

Pixies.

I like that idea.

It gives the place an almost dream-like quality. Suitable for Kaylee, who's always dreamed of far-off places.

The disaster of her childhood brought her here. To a home far more ideal and suitable for her than the place she was born into. I ponder that now as I stand on the stoop, Jake's hand in mine. The wind is still, the chimes silent. I tap a metal ladybug hanging by the door. Her wings bump a butterfly's, which in turn knocks a neighboring chime full of ceramic tea cups. Soon I'm surrounded by the song of pixies.