Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(52)
Without comment or hesitation, Revenge sprints to the dock. The boards don’t shudder beneath his weight like they would for everyone else. Then he jumps. He hits the water and disappears for a moment. When he resurfaces, he whoops.
“Are you crazy?” I hiss, huddling on the shore. “It’s still freezing!”
Revenge smirks. “Coward!” He tosses his head, hair flying. Glittering droplets fly through the air and ripples reach for my toes. I watch him bob and float for a few seconds, twisting my lips in indecision. Then Revenge makes chicken sounds. This propels me forward, onto the dock, and toward him. I don’t pause to test the waters. I just leap.
The cold is shocking. For a few seconds I’m only aware of the freezing rush, the jolt of pain. But I squeeze my eyes shut and stay submerged. The discomfort subsides until I’m used to it, or maybe just numb. I absorb the sensation of a place without sound. The water is black and unending. Is this what death feels like? Just … peaceful?
My lungs start to tingle. Then they ache. After that, more pain. I kick my legs and reach the surface.
The moment I emerge, Revenge splashes water in my face. “Hey!” I sputter, kicking my legs to stay afloat. “Do you mind?”
“You know, you didn’t used to be so boring,” he says.
My eyes narrow. “Oh, really? I’m boring now?” As an answer, he floats on his back and stares up at the moon. Though I can’t shove him beneath the surface as I long to, I still manage to surprise him when I scoop water in my hands and push it over his mouth and nose. He jerks upright, coughing, and I laugh. We keep tormenting each other until my cheeks hurt from smiling. It’s wonderful-strange how light I feel, like someone has blown up a balloon inside me and it’s lifting me up, up. The usual sense of guilt I feel at being happy—even so briefly—when they aren’t alive to feel anything doesn’t come. There is only this—me and him and the sky.
No, that’s not right. There’s someone else nearby. “Look,” I murmur. Relenting, Revenge follows my gaze.
There’s a light on the opposite side of the lake, and I know from the location that it has to be old man Holland’s house. Usually, when the sun sinks, he turns every light off. But for some reason, tonight he’s left a single window still shining with yellow light. It feels like a silent announcement, as if to say, Hello. Yes, it’s true. I’m real. I’m here.
Feeling Revenge’s eyes on me, I face him again. “I should go home,” I say. Reluctance materializes and complains about the water.
We both ignore her. “It’s not that late,” Revenge protests. He cuts through the waves as if to stop me from leaving.
“But Saul and Missy might check on me. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” Shivering, I swim back to shore. My clothes drip and stick to me as I get on the bike. With my luck I’ll get sick. I don’t regret it, though. This is one thing I will never regret.
Revenge doesn’t accompany me to the road, and I turn back. He’s still there, floating by the end of the dock. From this distance he looks like something entirely mystical, a merman or a spirit. Lovely. Untouchable. He lifts his hand and waves. I wave back, then make myself pedal away.
The apartment is quiet when I creep inside. Saul and Missy aren’t fighting anymore and the stream of light beneath their bedroom door is gone. I get into dry pajamas and clean up my wet tracks on the floor. Then I climb into bed and curl on my side, closing my eyes and seeing Revenge. Hearing his voice say for the hundredth time, I will never give up on you. Feel the heat of him even with air and water and indecision separating us.
When I finally fall asleep, the dream is different from all the others. There’s still twisted metal and shattering glass, moans and pale skin and scarlet rivers. But amongst all those images is Dad, silent and staring. He doesn’t speak, but I hear him in my head, whispering, Hello. Yes, it’s true. I’m real. I’m here.
NINETEEN
“How are you doing up here?” Missy’s head appears through the square door in the center of the attic floor. It’s early, and dawn spills through the window. The past few days have been like that light, so swift and serene. I know it won’t last.
“Fine.” Smiling in greeting, I set a basket of yarn and knitting needles next to the rocking chair. I hope Missy doesn’t notice the lines beneath my eyes, just as she probably hopes I don’t notice hers.
My aunt climbs up the rest of the way and sits on the edge of the opening. She glances around with raised brows. “This turned out really good, Alex. Wow. I forgot what the floor looked like up here.”
“Thanks. Hey, did I hear Saul leaving this morning?” I’m relieved that she still doesn’t ask about Andrew or why I’m avoiding him.
“Yeah, he has another job. The drive is longer than most, so he’ll probably stay at a motel on the way back.” Missy’s smile is strained now, and I wonder if she’s telling me the entire truth. Then again, I’m hardly one to judge. Truth is as rare and difficult to find as coal in the mines.
“ … making breakfast,” Missy is saying. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” I lie.
“Good. Come down in a little bit, then.” The ladder creaks and groans as she descends. Soon the top of her graying head is gone. I sit in the rocking chair, unsettling more dust. Something in the chair’s frame must be loose, because it wobbles precariously. I push my toe against the floor and keep swaying. After a few seconds of this I close my eyes … and an image comes to me. My mother. Sitting in this same chair. She’s not in the attic, though. She’s in our old living room, looking out the window with a worried look in her eyes. The memory comes in pieces, like most things.