Figment. Part 4

"Hey, what's up?" Davis called through the gates to the Beefeaters. They didn't respond, of course.

"Davis!" I giggled and dragged him away. "The queen's probably watching from inside right now."

The rest of the day was like a happy fantasy. We wandered the streets, getting lost, finding ourselves again. We stared, open-mouthed, at the ma.s.sive spires of Parliament and the towering grace of Westminster Abbey. We asked a pair of Italian tourists to take a picture of us under Big Ben. We tried a slice of steak-and-kidney pie from a shop with a window that opened onto the street. We both agreed that the kidneys tasted unsettlingly like urine.

At the end of the day, we found ourselves wandering down a labyrinth of narrow alleyways near the site of the original Globe Theatre. The gray stone around us was tinted pink from the sunset streaking the sky overhead. I was holding Davis's hand, gazing at the crumbling stone archways that led into even more tiny alleys, thinking incredulously that Shakespeare himself might have walked right here on these very stones, just like we were. Suddenly, in front of us, a woman in an old-fas.h.i.+oned beaded dress darted from one of the alleys. She glanced over her shoulder as if someone was following her and then slipped into a nearby doorway. We stopped.

"What . . . ?" Davis said. Then a man in a tuxedo with slicked-back hair ran out of the alley, too. He had something small and black in his hand, and before I realized what it was, two sharp reports echoed against the building walls around us.

"Oh my G.o.d," I gasped, my blood turning to ice water. I clutched at Davis.

"Wait, look." He pointed at a crowd of people, some in 1930s dress, streaming from the same alley the man and woman had come from. A few of them had cameras, but none looked particularly alarmed. They tramped across the cobblestones and filed into the doorway. Davis caught the sleeve of a girl wearing a sparkly flapper dress at the end of the line.

"Hey, what's going on?" he asked.

"It's a Secret Cinema performance." She gestured at the doorway where the last of the crowd was going in. "They pick an old movie, and the actors actually perform it live in a secret location around London. They play parts of the movie on a huge screen, too. It's so amazing." She smiled at us and turned to follow the others.

"Definitely not something that happens in Stanton." Davis grabbed my hand. "Let's check it out."

We ran into the building and up a narrow flight of stairs. The building appeared to be abandoned, but we found the audience cl.u.s.tered in a large room at the top. The woman actor in the beaded dress was now standing over the man in the tuxedo, who lay on the floor. She had the gun in her hand. Eerie music played from some hidden sound system.

Davis wrapped his arms around me from behind and rested his chin on my shoulder as we watched the "movie" unfold in front of us. Here I was, in one of the most amazing cities on Earth, with my boyfriend, my leg finally feeling better, seeing something so different from anything in Connecticut. I twisted around to tell Davis how happy I was, when a man standing at the edge of the crowd caught my eye. He was small and slim, wearing a narrow gray suit, and he was staring at us with what looked like unusual intensity.

"Davis," I murmured.

"Hmm?"

"That guy there . . ."

But when I looked back, the man was gone.

"What guy?" Davis asked.

"Shh," whispered the person in front of us.

I stared at the spot where the gray-suited man had been standing, then shook my head, turning back to the action. He must have been one of the actors. "Nothing," I said.

SIX.

Every day, Davis and I were out in London. He'd wait for me in our spot by our building, and we'd get our coffee and pastry from Harold, the gap-toothed vendor with the green awning. We ambled every street we could find, sometimes strolling randomly, sometimes studying the Tube map and picking some neighborhood with an interesting name, like Bromley, and riding there on the train. I didn't dare sneak out at night again, but when I lay in my bed and pictured Davis one floor above me, I was comforted.

If it wasn't for the nightmares, I'd have been perfectly happy. But each night when I closed my eyes, they claimed me, sending me back to that slick black road over and over again. Each time, I watched Davis with one hand on the wheel, and the curve of the road looming ahead. He would talk to me emphatically, gesturing, but I could never understand his words-just an infuriating gibberish. Then the crash, the impact, tumbling down the hill again and again. Always, I woke up as the car hit the dirt with a thud.

Davis had been in London for four days when I kissed him good-bye in his empty flat upstairs one evening. Behind us, a gray blanket I'd snuck up was mussed, evidence of our long, sensuous afternoon. I tried to comb my hair with my fingers and rubbed at my chafed lips. "How do I look?" I asked.

He leaned over to kiss me one last time. "Like a girl who's spent the whole afternoon alone with her boyfriend."

"My parents will love that." I made a face at him and wrapped my hair in a bun. "I hate leaving you, but I swore I'd have dinner with them. They miss me since I've been hanging out with *Oliver.'"

"Should I be jealous?" he teased. He held my hand firmly as I stood up.

"Probably. My parents know his parents. I'm sure my mother's practically got me married off." I laughed at his mock puppy-dog face and extracted my hand from his grasp. "See you tomorrow." I bent to kiss his forehead.

I limped down the service stairs and, humming to myself, opened the door of the flat. "I'm home!" I called in. I could smell roast chicken.

"Zoe, please come in here," my father said from the kitchen. His voice sounded stony, and with my palms suddenly sweaty, I walked slowly toward the back of the flat.

In the doorway of the kitchen, my heart dropped with a thud. Sitting at the table beside my parents was Oliver. No one was smiling.

"Hi," I said carefully. "Um, Oliver . . ."

"Sit down," my mother cut in. "I believe you owe us an explanation."

I perched at the edge of my chair. A chicken thigh and a pile of green beans were growing cold on my plate. "Mom, listen . . ."

"Since Dad and I have to be at that emba.s.sy meeting tomorrow, I wanted us to have a nice dinner together tonight. Imagine my surprise when I dropped a note at Oliver's flat, inviting him also, only to have Oliver himself open the door." My mother's nose was white around the nostrils. "I thought he was with you today."

"Oh." I clasped my hands together under the table, trying to think of how to get myself out of this.

"The thing is, um, Zoe and I were out today," Oliver broke in hurriedly. "I came home just for a bit . . ." His voice trailed off. I gave him a grateful glance, but neither of my parents looked at him. Everyone could tell he was trying to cover for me.

"We trusted you, Zoe. And you lied to us." My mother set her fork and knife down on her plate, hard.

"Maybe I had a good reason," I mumbled. Under the table, I felt Oliver's foot press against mine. The gesture was dimly comforting.

"What?" My father almost spat the word, like an apple seed, across the table. "What did you say?"

I looked up, feeling pressure building inside me. "I said, maybe I had a good reason."

"Oh?" My father threw his napkin onto the table, then pushed back his chair with a sc.r.a.pe. "And what reason is that?"

"Charles, calm down," my mother broke in. "Please." She cut her eyes over to Oliver, who got quickly to his feet.

"I should probably go." He cast me a sympathetic glance. "Sorry," he mouthed.

I had the urge to catch at his sleeve and beg him not to leave me alone with my parents, but I just managed a watery smile, and then he was out the door.

"Where were you today?" My father's voice cut like a blade through the icy silence. "Who were you with?"

I stared at his hard face, the gla.s.ses low on the tip of his nose, and murderous rage built up in me. I wanted to hurt him as badly as he'd hurt me. And in that moment, I didn't care what the consequences were. "I was with Davis!" I yelled, my voice cracking. I relished the look of astonishment on their faces. It felt good to say it, to hurt them and to declare that they hadn't brought me down, even though they'd tried their hardest. I drove the knife in deeper. "He's here, you know. He came back to me, even though you tried everything to keep us apart. You flew me all the way across the ocean, but he followed me." I was panting. The words pouring out of me felt like the bursting of an abscess. "If I were you, I'd be happy my daughter's found someone she loves. Why can't you just give him a chance?"

I was expecting them to grow even angrier, but instead they just looked at each other and then at me, sadness and pain written across their faces. They said nothing.

"What?" I glanced from my father to my mother and back again, suddenly confused. "What is it?"

My mother reached across the table, took both my hands in hers, and squeezed them tightly. She cast an inquiring glance at my father, who nodded.

"Tell her, Mary."

"Tell me what?" I demanded.

"Zoe." Mom seemed to gather herself, then spoke gently. "We can't give Davis a chance, because Davis no longer exists."

My father leaned across the table and looked into my eyes. "Davis died in the car crash."

I stared at them blankly as the seconds ticked on, spelled out by the yellow clock on the wall. My fingers left my mom's and clutched Davis's infinity charm, which always lived in my pocket. I became aware of a buzzing in my ears, growing steadily louder, as my father's words repeated themselves over and over in my mind: "died in the car crash, died in the car crash, died in the car crash."

I became aware that they were both watching me tensely, as if I were a bomb about to go off. Which, in a sense, I was. "How can you do this?" I whispered. Then my voice rose uncontrollably. "How can you do this?" I was screaming now. "How can you be so warped, so twisted . . ." I sobbed, unable to say more.

"We kept telling you when you woke up in the hospital," Mom said. She scooted her chair around closer to me. "It never registered. Your mind just couldn't accept the news."

I saw her shoot a questioning glance at my father over my head. He nodded.

"We hoped that if we got you away from everything, got you into a new environment, you could come to terms with his death in your own time." Dad took his gla.s.ses off and rubbed his eyes, as if suddenly tired. "But clearly that has not happened."

I felt wetness in my palms. I was clenching my fists so tightly, my fingernails were biting into my skin. Blood seeped around the gouges. "I can't believe it . . . I can't believe it," I repeated.

"It's true, darling." My mother tried to take my hand. I jerked it away and leapt up from the table, knocking over my chair with a bang.

"I can't believe you guys would actually be this crazy to keep us apart. You're such liars!" Fury claimed me then. I s.n.a.t.c.hed a winegla.s.s from the table and hurled it against the far wall. Pinot noir splattered the white curtains like blood as shards of crystal flew everywhere. "G.o.d d.a.m.n you!" I screamed, and I ran from the kitchen.

I slammed the door to my bedroom and locked it, then leaned both fists on my dresser, staring at my wild-eyed self in the mirror. They were monsters to tell me he was dead. I s.h.i.+vered, suddenly chilled, and grabbed a sweater from my closet, wrapping it around my shoulders as I crouched on my bed, rocking back and forth.

I had to see him. I couldn't be alone right now. But I couldn't bear the thought of walking past my parents, probably still sitting in the kitchen. A sudden thought struck me, and I ran to my window. I almost laughed when I saw the black stairs of the fire escape rising to the roof. Of course.

With difficulty, I tugged open the sash and cautiously stepped out onto the rusty iron steps. The metal groaned underneath me, and, for a moment, I held my breath. Then, quickly, I scurried upward, clinging to the narrow railing and trying not to look down.

On the penthouse landing, I stopped to catch my breath. Hopefully, Davis would be able to open the window. I leaned forward and peered through the gla.s.s. There was our corner, with a few soda cans and a water bottle strewn about. But Davis wasn't there. And both his backpack and the gray blanket were gone, too. It was as if he'd never even been there at all.

SEVEN.

I gasped automatically as I stared at Davis's empty corner from my fire-escape perch. Then I shook myself. Don't be such a freak. My parents' manipulation was getting to me. He was probably just out grabbing something to eat.

I climbed back down the iron steps and paused at my own window. The thought of going into that room was claustrophobic. On a whim, I kept going until I reached the ladder at the bottom of the fire escape. I jumped the last few feet to the ground and stood for a moment, breathing heavily and brus.h.i.+ng bark from my hair, then sat down on a nearby bench and dropped my head into my hands.

I felt unsteady when I thought of my parents' treachery, as if my world were suddenly built on a platform of tipsy boards. I knew they hated Davis, but I didn't know they were actually ruthless. And they were so calm. It was like they had been prepared with the lie, ready to bring it out at any time.

"Zoe." Someone touched me on the shoulder, and I jerked upward, a scream hovering at my lips.

Oliver stood over me, his eyes like dark smudges in his face. His hands were stuffed into his pockets. "Hey, listen, about before-"

I shook my head. "Don't worry about it. It's all good." My voice caught slightly, and he bent forward, trying to look into my face.

He perched on the edge of the bench. "Well, I'm sorry I got you into trouble." He touched my sleeve lightly.

I sighed. "It's totally not your fault." I stopped, but then something about his friendly face made me go on. "My parents basically hate my boyfriend from back home. They think he's a bad influence and a slacker. He's not at all. He's actually really smart. He just doesn't always live by other people's rules."

"I get it," Oliver encouraged me.

"Anyway, we were in a bad car accident-that's how I got hurt-and he was driving. My parents flipped and dragged me all the way over here just to keep me away from him. But he came over to find me. I was with him these last few days, but I told them I was with you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into my family drama." I put my hand on his. "You're probably sorry you ever met me."

He looked down at our hands, then shook his head, smiling faintly. "No, I'm not. I'm glad I can help you, actually."

A zing of electricity flitted between us, and I stood up quickly. "I should probably go back in."

He rose also. "Yeah, me too." He squeezed my hand firmly, his fingers strong and warm. "Good night. Sleep tight."

I shook my head ruefully. "Not likely."

"Sleep loose, then."

I smiled at his dumb joke and watched him walk across the courtyard, shoulders high and straight, then turned and slowly trailed back into the lobby and up to the flat, the very last place I wanted to be.

In bed later, I huddled under the covers, seeing my father's concerned face in my mind, my mother trying to take my hands. Clearly, that has not happened, they'd said. Clearly, I had not accepted Davis's death. Death! They were saying I was crazy, of course. Hallucinating, like one of those people you saw talking to themselves on the street.

I pulled the sheet tighter over my head, staring at the faint circle of my bedside lamp visible through the fabric. I ran through every moment I could remember of the last few weeks. The scene in the hospital, the nurse restraining me. My parents' adamant refusal to give me my phone. Why would they do that if Davis was dead? Becca's weirdness when we were driving to his house. She was in on this with my parents; she knew she was about to betray me. And the last few days. I squeezed my eyes shut in my blanket-cave as I thought of Davis's face, framed against the crystalline blue sky. His hand wrapped around mine, so warm and firm. Our laughter twining together as we watched the rowers on the Thames.

Those moments were real. I could never imagine them. My body relaxed as I sighed and turned over in bed. Davis and I had planned to meet at the coffee truck in the morning. I'd feel better when I saw him. Everything would be okay.

Sleep was tugging at me, and I went willingly, happy to escape from this day. My mind blurred, and I succ.u.mbed.

The car is climbing up the road again, and now I know I am dreaming. I know I have been here before, and I know how this dream ends. But I cannot wake myself, and I struggle against the weight of my sleep-paralyzed body. I am a prisoner of the nightmare, and, helplessly, I watch as Davis once again mouths the invisible words I cannot understand. I lean in closer, trying to understand him, but then my attention is distracted by the wicked, gleaming curve of asphalt in front of us. I know what will happen when we reach the top of the hill, but still, I cannot stop us. Futilely, I grasp the car handle as the guardrail gives way with a sickening crunch. Once again, we are flying through the air until everything goes black.

EIGHT.

My mother always says that things look better in the morning, no matter what happened the night before. And it was true that when I opened my eyes to the London fog at my windows, I did feel better. The horrors of the night before were reduced in the face of such mundane details as my hairbrush on the dresser and last night's dirty underwear crumpled under the chair.

I pulled on jeans and a navy-blue T-s.h.i.+rt, slid the infinity charm into my pocket, and slipped out to the kitchen, where I found a note on the bare table.