Everneath. Part 8

It didn't matter. Right at that moment, I knew my dad was right. I was totally overwhelmed by Jack Caputo. There would be no going back.

I took his arm and put it around me so I could curl into his chest and hear his heartbeat, which despite his calm demeanor, was racing. He held me close and tight, as if he were tucking a football.

He pressed his lips into my hair. "I love you, Becks. I've never felt like this."

I nodded against him, still unsure if I could believe him. I thought about Lacey and the way she was standing next to him. "You've never been in love?"

He let out a quiet breath, and I felt him shake his head. "Easy to say. Harder to feel." He ran his fingers through my hair and tucked a few strands behind my ear. With a lighter voice, he said, "Out of curiosity, what would you have said if I wanted to..."

"I would've said no."

"Yeah?"

I nodded. "I'm glad you didn't, because that would have been awkward."

His chest shuddered with laughter.

EIGHT.

NOW.

The soup kitchen. Four months left.

My days on the Surface started to stack up and run together, so I wasn't sure how many Sat.u.r.days had pa.s.sed before I saw Mary at the soup kitchen again. I'd been looking for her as I ladled chili into soup bowls, because I wanted to ask her about that Priscilla's daughter the braid girl was telling me about.

My need to help her was stronger than I could explain. It's not like she was the first senile person I'd ever met, but ever since she told me I'd broken a heart, I felt a sort of connection to her, as if her dementia gave her a unique insight into people's souls.

I knew that wasn't possible.

When I'd served about half the tub of soup, I saw her in the line. As she reached for a tray, an old silver bracelet slid down her arm and settled on her wrist. It was the only jewelry she wore and looked heavy on her frail wrist. It must've been an heirloom or something.

"Hi, Nikki," she said when she reached my station.

I didn't remember telling her my name. "Hi, Mary. How are you today?"

"Can you eat with me?"

"Um..." I glanced at Christopher right next to me, and he nodded. "Sure, I guess."

Maybe he considered this another aspect of service, beyond ladling soup. I dished myself a bowl and followed Mary to one of the long rectangular tables in the dining hall. We took the two seats on the end, facing each other.

"I'm sorry about the other day," she said. "The little scene I made."

"It's okay."

"I just ... sometimes I get confused." She broke her bread into tiny little pieces and placed them in her soup.

"I understand."

She looked at me with strangely hopeful eyes. "Do you?"

"Sure, Mary." I considered telling her my great-aunt had Alzheimer's, but decided not to. Maybe she'd be offended if I compared them.

She waited for me to say something else, so I felt it was a good time to ask her. "Mary, one of the girls here told me you were looking for somebody's daughter?"

Her eyes darted back and forth, as if she were nervous about being overheard. I wondered if it was a secret.

I lowered my voice. "Is that right?"

She didn't answer, so I pushed a little. "I could try to help you find what you're looking for. Was it Penelope's daughter?"

Mary went from looking frightened to suddenly trying to stifle a laugh.

I guess it did sound a little ridiculous. Once she'd regained composure, she said, "I don't remember anything about that."

"Oh." She was quiet again. Obviously if she knew something about it, she wasn't going to offer it. I changed the subject. "So, where are you from?"

"Here. Park City."

"Do you have family?"

"Just my mom."

I tried not to look skeptical. She had to be at least eighty years old. Maybe she meant her mother was still here in spirit. Or that she'd been raised by a single mom. I changed the subject again, because I didn't want to be the one to break the news that her mother was probably dead.

"That's a pretty bracelet," I said, pointing to her wrist. "Where did you get it?"

She deftly moved her hands under the table, a reflex action. "It's been pa.s.sed down through my family for generations." She took a bite of soup and roll. "To the women," she added. "But you can't have it."

"Oh. Well, it's beautiful," I said.

The lunch line was starting to thin out. Mary swallowed, took a drink of her water, set the cup down, and leaned forward. Her hands started to shake. "Help me, Nikki."

The statement came out of nowhere. "Um, okay. What can I do?"

"I'm confused. I was ready to go. And now I don't know what to do." Was she talking about dying? "What's waiting for me?" she asked.

I slowly shook my head. "Honestly, I don't know."

"But what do you believe?"

A year ago, my Christian upbringing would have told me the answer: paradise. When I used to ask my dad where he thought my mother was, he would tell me she was above, looking down on us. But now that sounded like another lie people tell themselves to feel better. I knew nothing of heaven.

"I don't know what's waiting for you," I said. Her face fell. "But it has to be better than this life," I added. "It just has to be."

Her shoulders relaxed, and I realized how tense she had been. "Thank you."

As we were cleaning up after the lunch rush, the braid girl came over to me. "Sorry you got stuck with Mary today."

I bent down with a dustpan to scoop up some crumbs. "It was fine. I feel sorry for her. I tried to ask her about Penelope's daughter, but she just seemed confused."

"Persephone," braid girl said.

I popped up. "What did you say?"

Braid girl shoved a bite of leftover roll into her mouth. "It was Persephone's daughter," she said with a full mouth. "I remembered. Only she said it all formal, like Daughters of Persephone."

She tied her trash bag and took it out back, and I was left in the middle of the floor, holding my dustpan.

Daughters of Persephone?

Too weird.

The following week, I couldn't get Mary and the Daughters of Persephone out of my head. When I got to the soup kitchen on Sat.u.r.day, Mary had already been through the line and was sitting at a table with a woman I didn't recognize. She looked like she was my father's age, maybe a little older. Her clothes were the kind I'd expect at an art gallery, not a shelter kitchen.

I waved to Mary. She looked at me, but she didn't wave back. Her head was lowered, and her shoulders sagged as the woman sitting across from her did most of the talking.

I slid into my place by Christopher. "Sorry I'm late."

"No problem. I'll just dock your pay," Christopher said with a little wink.

I served up a couple of bowls, but I could tell I had missed the lunch rush. "Who's the woman sitting with Mary?" I asked Christopher.

He looked up from his bread basket. "Don't know. Haven't seen her here before."

"She looks familiar, though, doesn't she?"

He squinted. "Maybe a little. Something about her, but I don't think she's ever been here before. Look"-he pointed with a piece of bread-"she's not eating. Maybe she's just here to visit Mary. Many of our patrons still have family, you know."

I watched for a few minutes. Mary wasn't talking much, except to give a one-word response or to nod. I glanced at the tray in front of her. She hadn't touched it. I noticed Mary's wrist. She wasn't wearing her bracelet.

She didn't look happy, and I hoped the woman would leave soon so I could talk to Mary and make sure she was good. Toward the end of the lunch hour, the woman stood. Mary leaned toward her, as if to hug her, but the woman turned and walked away before she could. Once she was gone, I went to Mary's table.

"Can I sit down?" I asked. She looked at me and motioned toward the chair. "Are you okay, Mary?" I said.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Who was that woman here with you?" I asked. "Was she family?"

Mary looked at me warily, and nodded. "She's my mother." She slumped a little in her seat and looked at my face. "You don't believe me," she said.

I put my elbows on the table and tried to sound understanding. "It's not that, Mary. We all get confused."

Mary nodded. "She's mad at me."

"Why?"

"I have something that belongs to her. That's the only reason she came. It's the only way I could get her to talk to me."

"What do you have?"

She took her spoon and dragged it through the soup. "I'm not supposed to talk about it."

"Why not?"

"I've already disappointed her enough."

I reached over and put my hand on her arm. I understood about disappointing people. "Friends forgive each other."

She looked up from her bowl. "I don't think you believe that any more than I do."

I drew my hand back, and Mary stood and grabbed her tray.

"Wait," I said. "I wanted to ask you about the Daughters of Persephone. Maybe I could-"

"Stop trying to help," she interrupted. She turned around and took her tray over to the garbage. I sighed. Maybe she was beyond help.

NINE.

NOW.

My bedroom. Four months left.

Time's flying for you, Nik." Cole was sitting in the darkest corner of my bedroom, his guitar lying silent beside him. I wasn't sure why he only ever showed up in my room. I didn't complain anymore. His visits were my chance to learn more about the rules of the Everneath.

The scar on my shoulder began to p.r.i.c.kle, as if it were waking up. It did that whenever Cole was around. I wondered if the Shade inside me could feel the presence of an Everliving.

Cole couldn't know I thought about any of this. I nodded and flipped through my notebook on top of my desk, trying to fight the urge to go sit next to him. Now that I was prepared for the pull between us, it was easier to ignore it, but it never went away.

"Is it everything you hoped it would be?" Cole said.

"It's everything I allowed myself to hope for," I qualified.