Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(62)
We’re nearly halfway there—thundering past a sign that reads FRANKLIN 20 MILES—when the quiet becomes unbearable. It reminds me too much of the night Forgiveness read to me and I fell asleep to the sound of his voice. “Why do you care so much?” I say abruptly. He turns his head toward me, and his soft curls brush the collar of his T-shirt. “Why are you trying so hard to save me?” I add. The words are uneven. I clench the wheel and my knuckles go white.
The Choice twists away again, watching the passing landscape with an expression that almost seems weary. “You’re so young, Alex. Your world is so small. You think it will always be like this, but you’re wrong. If you would just give it some more time … ”
“That’s not an answer.”
A cloud moves in front of the sun, and the world fades to gray. “I knew your father,” Forgiveness states after a brief hesitation. His long fingers fold between his legs, and though his stance appears relaxed, I sense tension emanating from him.
“You did?” Surprise joins us.
“I did. He struggled with anger, too. He summoned me once, on the night you were born.” Forgiveness stops and I want to snap at him, order him to tell me everything. Why has he kept this a secret until now? But that isn’t the way to get answers from the other plane, so I force myself to wait. My restraint is rewarded, and Forgiveness angles his body toward me. His eyes are sad but resolved. “The first thing you should know—though you already do, I hope—is that your parents loved you. More than anything. But before you came along, your father had plans to go to college. He’d been accepted to a state school and he was weeks away from leaving this place behind for good.”
I blink. Dad had almost left Franklin? I’d known it was his dream, of course, but I’d always thought he hadn’t had a choice in the matter. If he had a way out, why didn’t he …
Realization hits. Of course. “Then Mom told him she was pregnant,” I finish. A sour taste fills my mouth.
Forgiveness nods. “He decided to stay. He got a job at the mines to support you both. And he never said one word to your mother about how much he regretted those missed opportunities. Secretly, though, he struggled with anger. Part of him blamed your mother for it.” Forgiveness doesn’t give me a chance to absorb this. “But on the night of your birth, everything changed. He took one look at you, and he made a choice.”
Tears sting in my eyes. I’m grateful that I have the road to focus on, since it takes me a few moments to regain my composure. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I manage.
A deer runs in front of us, far enough ahead that I’m not startled. It vanishes into the trees, a blur of brown fur and long legs and elegant movement.
In another odd moment of indecision, he doesn’t answer my question right away. He rakes his hair back. But eventually he says, careful not to meet my gaze, “I didn’t want you to think that the past is the only reason I’m here.” He loses himself in the rushing trees as if this is his purpose, rather than redemption.
Suddenly I’m fascinated by the scenery, too. The richness of the dirt, the height of the treetops, the brightness of the sky. It burns in a simmering shade of orange, making the entire mountain feel like an inferno and we’re only ashes. “What other reason is there?” I ask quietly.
I can feel Forgiveness staring at me now. “You know why, Alex.” His voice has softened too, and, unable to resist, I glance at him. Something in his expression turns the anger within me into butterflies. They take wing, all colors and forbidden things. Forgetting the danger, I flounder in the ocean of his eyes. He’s nothing like what I expected him to be, and I wish he was. I wish he didn’t read books or see me or have such a kindness about him. Because it would make the choice so much easier.
Again, I’m the one to look away. We don’t speak again until I’m pulling into my parking spot in front of the apartment. Neither of us moves. Birds call to each other and flutter on the power line over our heads. The smell of Forgiveness is overwhelming, coating my skin and the seats and the air. I breathe it in for a minute. Then I surprise myself once more, this time by blurting, “Do you have a name? I mean, a real one?”
I’ve astonished him, too; I can see it in the way he goes still. But I can’t take it back. For what feels like the hundredth time in the last hour, Forgiveness doesn’t immediately respond. It soon becomes apparent that he isn’t going to, and it’s even more apparent that it’s because he doesn’t have a name. Something I said to Eggs that day on the step comes back to me: Everyone needs a name.
I shift in the seat, clearing my throat. “Well, the next time you introduce yourself to someone and don’t want to use Forgiveness … you seem like an Atticus. For the record.” I get out of the car.
“Atticus,” he echoes, almost to himself. A smile touches his lips. I shut the door, thinking he’ll follow. But when I look back, he’s gone. Saul is playing one of the pianos, and I stand on the sidewalk to listen. From this spot I can see through a break in the trees, to the high ridge of another peak. Mist swirls over the moss and rocks.
What’s the right choice? I ask silently.
The mountain doesn’t answer.
TWENTY-TWO
I’m in art class when he calls.
The number on the caller ID isn’t labeled, but I know it by heart. The instant I see those digits I stop breathing. Recovering—my phone keeps buzzing, but I know it’ll stop in a few seconds—I raise my hand. “Mr. Kim? I have to run to the bathroom. It’s an emergency.” Our teacher looks up from helping Yelena Prichard with her clay candle and nods his assent. Georgie and Briana give me questioning looks, which I ignore. Abandoning my sad attempt at a sculpture of the mountain, I slide off the stool and rush to the door.