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Celestial Souls, Book I: Christine
Chapter Nine: Release

Maybe it was the sheer boredom, for there was absolutely nothing to do down in that little room, but by the time dinner arrived, I had calmed down enough to not try anything stupid. And by stupid I meant trying to attack an unarmed person. It seemed to be the best route to take. Even if my mother would disagree. I could picture her in my mind’s eye, looking disapproving: “You’re just going to sit there and take it?” she would likely demand. “Good God! No one likes a doormat.”

But my mother wasn’t here, far from it, and so I picked at the dinner in silence. It was a plate from what they had been eating, the same sort of bland food I’d eaten the previous night too. How did Mr. Dessler manage it? Wouldn’t his wife notice if plates of food mysteriously went missing? I guess she didn’t. Maybe she excused it away in her mind.

I tried very hard not to think about the whole alien story I’d been told. With calmness came clear-headedness, and it wasn’t really a believable story. I was just losing my head in panic earlier, like I usually did. Of course, it didn’t help in the slightest that Carmen came in, having calmed down herself, and wanted a long, long conversation. I couldn’t really blame her; she’d been here, by herself, for over a week at this point; she must have been desperate for company. Unfortunately what she wanted to talk about was the exact sort of thing I wanted to avoid: aliens, and why they didn’t exist.

“I think I’m going to say I buy it when he comes down next,” she announced, perched on the edge of the futon without asking. “He should let me out then.”

“Good for you,” I said. What else could I say?

“Maybe he’ll let us out together,” she mused.

“Maybe,” I said.

“You’re not much of a conversationalist.”

“How can you expect me to be?”

Her face fell ever-so-slightly as the reality of the situation crashed back. “I don’t know. I just assumed that since you’ve calmed down, you might want to talk. I’ve been pretty damn lonely down here; this is a godsend for me.”

Damn. There was the guilt. “I can’t say I understand how you feel, but I haven’t been down here as long. I’m...still kinda in shock, okay? I don’t much feel like talking about aliens right now.”

“Of course,” she said, with understanding. “I’m sorry, that was pretty stupid of me. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, and I like to try and talk things out when stuff like that happens...you said your name was Christine? I’ve heard that name before, and I can’t place it.”

“You helped me out a bit one night,” I said. It came back clearly now, the girl with short brown hair pulling me to my feet after I had screamed my head off in a dark parking lot. “You and your boyfriend – I assume – were out seeing a movie, and so was I...”

Recognition flashed in her eyes. “That’s right,” she said, “I was out seeing a movie with my boyfriend, and you were out with yours when you were attacked—”

I felt my face flush. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I said. “It was a just-friends thing; my friend sprained her ankle trying to run off.”

“Oh, that’s right. Did they ever catch the guy who did it?”

“Not that I know of. I had thought that was the guy kidnapping these girls...but, you know, it wasn’t.”

“Nothing like learning the hard way,” Carmen said, bitterness creeping into her voice.

“No kidding,” I added gloomily. “It’s weird.”

“Huh.”

There was a moment of silence between us; upstairs, I could hear creaking noises as people walked about. The noise was oddly soothing, a distraction from the normal dead silence around the place.

“Where are you from?” Carmen asked, leaning back on the bed to make herself more comfortable.

“Around here,” I said. “Closer to the other side of town. Where’re you from?”

“I’m sharing an apartment with my sister right now,” she said. “In London. She’s a grad student, in the journalism program.”

“And you?”

“Finishing up undergrad work. Computer sciences. We both thought it’d be easier to live near campus than commute.”

“Western?”

“Yeah.”

“I was thinking about going there,” I admitted.

“Bring a map with you, or else you’ll get lost,” she said with a bit of a laugh. “That’s what happened to me when I was just starting out. It took me ages just to find where my classes were.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said. “All I know is that the Music building’s near the river, and that’s all I cared about.”

“My roommate in residence went there. Can’t remember her name, that’s how much I cared, but I remember she went there.”

“Does your boyfriend go there?”

“Nah,” she said, “He’s taking night courses at Fanshawe.”

“Ah, cool,” I said.

“You...know these people?” she attempted.

“I know their grandson,” I said. “He’s in one of my classes. I just met the other two yesterday.”

“Huh. I wondered why everything went quiet after a bit. I can’t hear clearly, but I can hear if there’s someone there, and there was noise, and then – nothing.”

“He used a weird gun to knock me out.”

“The phaser? That’s what I call it. Kinda nerdy, I know, but the name fits. He showed it to me once, didn’t explain much how it worked.”

I felt myself grin a little at this. “Phaser? Never thought of it that way.”

“Hey, if the shoe fits – and in this case the shoe fits really well. Less flashy than the T.V. version, sure, but they do pretty much the same thing. I half-expect him to start telling me about the Vulcans.”

“After all that, I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said. Carmen grinned. I grinned back.

We didn’t talk long, for Mr. Dessler came down and Carmen quickly rushed back to her room (“I don’t know if he likes the idea of us talking, and I want to play it safe,” she explained). As it was, he was merely coming to take the plates away and bring them back upstairs before anyone noticed.

“Are we going soon?” I said to him.

“Be patient,” he said. “Not until much later. I’ll come and get you.”

Carmen took the opportunity, after he was gone, to come back in, running a hand through her short hair. It stood up on odd angles as she did so, but she didn’t seem to care.

“What’s he want you to do?”

“Help him get a new phaser.”

She rolled her eyes. “Good luck with that.”

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. I was just trying to buy time.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Kind of. I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s going to wipe my memory no matter what I say, but this gives me enough time to do something about it – write it down so I don’t forget.”

Carmen’s eyes widened a bit as she realised the possibility. She seemed to take the idea of memory-wiping in stride, only seeing a way out through me. But if I couldn’t remember... Her face fell.

“Damn! I don’t have a pen or anything.”

“I don’t either. You don’t suppose he’d let us borrow one?”

“I don’t think so,” Carmen said, looking pensive. “Hm. You said he’s going to do something to make you forget. Maybe...if you bring something from here – a piece of blanket, or something easy to carry – it will be enough to jog your memory later on.”

“What d’you think would do the trick?”

“That red bucket, maybe,” she said, only half-joking. “But that’s a little conspicuous. You wouldn’t be able to sneak it out.”

“And I smashed up that mirror good,” I said.

“There’s just cardboard over there now,” she said. “It wouldn’t do any good.”

“Maybe we can rip off a piece of that blanket,” she said, plucking a corner of the thing between her thumb and forefinger. “I don’t know how it would remind you, but...”

“I think that blanket’s got bloodstains on it,” I said. “Oh, yeah, right here, see? I wrapped my hand in it after I cut myself.”

“That might work,” she said. “Between the bandages on your hand and the bloodstains, it might be enough to at least remember what you did. But how would we cut it?”

She focused on the area, her nails clicking together as she tried to loosen the threads. It didn’t do much good; the blanket was still intact.

“Maybe the corner of the frame?” I suggested, taking the bloodstained piece from her. The corner of the futon frame was sharp; not enough to draw blood, but if one was really persistent, then maybe it would at least fray the threads enough to make an easy rip...

I tried running the area across the corner. My attempt was as futile as Carmen’s.

“That’s a good idea,” she said. “I dunno when you’re going out, but I’ll try and see if I can make some headway while you’re gone.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “I can rip my own fabric.”

She grinned. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. It’ll be something to do.”

We talked until late in the night, when Carmen decided a shower was in order, and I tentatively decided that might have been a good idea as well. I felt dirty. Finding towels tucked away neatly, and a bar of soap in the shower stall, I tried to relax in the warm water. It worked a little bit, as I could forget where I was until I stepped out of the shower. Wringing my hair out, not seeing a comb anywhere, I put my clothes back on, feeling a bit of chill with my damp hair.

When I finally fell asleep, the faint sounds of Carmen moving in the other room, I dreamt several strange things. The man from the parking lot, Mr. Dessler, and Eric all sort of collided with each other, and it was not a pleasant scene. It was as I watched a burst of phaser fire come through, glowing a blood red, did I wake with a jolt. My heart racing, it took me a minute to figure out that I hadn’t been killed in the dream; Mr. Dessler had jolted me awake.

“Come on, now,” he said. I felt something being placed on my lap. Fumbling with it, I felt the coarse fabric of my coat, and put it on. Only half-awake, I sort of staggered out of the room and down the hallway, until we hit the staircase. My shoes were there, and it took me a long moment to slip them on before being whisked upstairs, Mr. Dessler behind me.

He had kept the lights off and the blinds shut, so even though I knew we were now on the ground floor, I couldn’t say where we were; I had to make my way through touch. Something smooth and cool came into contact with my hand; it had to have been a countertop. My hands moved slowly, feeling for a handle to a drawer or something – ah, there it was; so we were in the kitchen—

Grabbing my arm, he led me quietly through the house, to a side door. The door opened with a slight creak, not loud, and he gestured I should go outside into the cold night air. It was November now, wasn’t it? Far colder than I expected. His car was in the driveway, the blue fridge on wheels, and he made me sit in the back. As he turned the ignition on, the headlights casting a sharp light, the clock read it was about a quarter-past three in the morning.

It was not long before we hit Queen’s Avenue, passing a grand total of one car on the way over, and it was there that he took his foot off the gas and shut off the headlights, coasting towards the store rather than driving. When we got there, he instructed me to get out, and I vaguely wondered how he was planning on getting inside. Ruth was not so stupid as to leave her place unlocked during the night, and I knew he had to get past two other locks before he could even get his hands on a new phaser. (Yes, that word was very fitting).

Ignoring the side door, Mr. Dessler crept up on the front porch. I didn’t know whether or not I should say that bells rang every time someone opened the front door, but I kept my mouth shut. Maybe someone upstairs would hear. Insisting we leave our shoes on the front porch – I didn’t know why; people walked through there every day with their shoes on – he opened the screen door quietly, fiddling with the lock for a moment. I don’t know what he did, but the door sailed open smoothly. The bells jangled. He froze, throwing an arm out to stop me. He waited. No one came, so he quickly stepped inside, shutting the door behind us so quickly that the bells didn’t have time to jangle.

“Now,” he said, so quietly I could barely hear him. “Where do I go?”

I could barely see, either, getting around solely by my knowledge of the place. Should I lead him astray? No, he’d figure it out quickly. There wasn’t much to the place.

“Go to your right,” I muttered. “There’s a room full of stuff there.”

“And the guns are in there?”

“Just go.”

He crept along, his hands out just as I’d had mine out, feeling his way. It took him a good five minutes to reach the edge of the junk room, his leg striking the edge of a table. He stopped, and reached into his pocket to put something on, as if he’d just remembered. Judging by the snapping sound, it was latex gloves.

“Well? Where are they?”

“There’s another room back there,” I said dully. “In there. Once you hit the beaded chains you’ll be there.”

“Why don’t you go first and show me the way?”

It was hard weaving through the maze of stuff piled there, but finally, the beads clacking lightly as I got tangled in them, I hit the doorway, literally, my back pressing up against it. Mr. Dessler moved me aside and began fiddling with the lock again; after a few moments, the door swung open and we stumbled inside. He shut the door behind us, tentatively flicking the lights on.

The room was the same as ever, the blinds tightly shut and curtains pulled across them. Mr. Dessler shed his jacket then, placing it by the bottom of the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure no light gets out, of course. Is that it there?” he gestured to the cabinet.

“Yes.”

For some reason this lock seemed to pose more of a challenge to him than before. He hemmed and hawed as he worked at it, trying to break it. Not really caring about what was going on, I leaned against the nearest shelf, feeling its’ weight buckle—

A book slid to the floor, landing with a thud that made Mr. Dessler jump.

“Be careful, would you?” he hissed.

It was the same old book that seemed to keep popping up – first in the supply closet, and now here; why didn’t Ruth just put it with the rest of the books? I picked it up while Mr. Dessler grumbled to himself over the lock, running my fingers along the yellowed pages. I hissed as I felt the skin slice open, blood rushing to the paper-cut. I jerked my hand away, but too late; a small reddish stain was on the pages. Crap.

The light flicked off just then, leaving us standing suddenly in pitch-black.

“What was that”—

“Shhh!” Mr. Dessler hissed. “Did you hear that?”

I tried to listen, straining my ears for the quietest of noises, but nothing was heard. No creaks from upstairs, no sort of movement downstairs except the sound of our breathing.

“Hear what?”

“Listen!”

I paused again, thinking maybe I’d missed it the first time around, but I still heard silence.

“I don’t hear anything,” I muttered to him. It still took him five minutes to turn the light on, blinding me again, and going back to the lock.

The book still in my hands, I glanced down at it. What was I worrying about? The blood smear was so small it was hardly noticeable. I placed it back on the shelf where it had fallen from, and just in time – the lock clicked, Mr. Dessler let out a quiet ‘a-ha’, and swung the cabinet doors open carefully, the gloves he wore not leaving a mark.

I got a good look at what was inside then, peering at it with curiosity. There were a decent number of guns there, as many as would fit, the smallest about the size of a label maker, and the largest (of which there was only one) looked like it required two hands to hold, and if the pieces scattered about were any indication, could be disassembled for easier storage. And, like Mr. Dessler’s, they all looked more like the radar guns used by cops than the ones that shot bullets – except sleeker. He was holding his gun up for comparison, and it looked a little boxier, less compact, than the models in the case.

“Which one do you think?” he asked me, lightly.

“I dunno. I thought you just needed to replace the battery.”

“They don’t make this model any more,” he said, “let alone batteries for it.”

“Oh.”

He contemplated the various models there for a long moment before selecting one roughly the same size as his old one; it was about the size of an average handgun, but with a sleeker, rounded shape. Lifting it out carefully, he slipped it in the belt holster before placing his old one back in the empty spot. Shutting and relocking the cabinet, he opened a drawer underneath and began rummaging for something (a battery, I assumed). Once he had found it, he slipped it into his pocket and, just before shutting off the lights, suggested we leave.

The walk back was just as disorienting as the walk in. As we hit the main room, a sudden chill overtook me, but I was forced to dismiss it as Mr. Dessler hurried me out and re-locked the door. He did not remove his gloves even as we got back into the car and drove off; only when we were back at the safety of his house did he do so, ushering me back downstairs in the cover of darkness.

I checked my watch. Forty-five minutes, give or take, had passed.

When I got back to the room, everything was as I’d left it – except for a ragged piece of cloth tucked under the pillow. Bigger than I would have aimed for, but better than the whole blanket. Feeling grateful to Carmen, I fell asleep very quickly.

It was half-past nine when I awoke. Tuesday, if my calculations were right. Breakfast was there; more bland oatmeal, which I ate quickly. Another shower was in order, even if I’d had one the night before. It might wake me up.

When I came out again, I began folding the piece of bloody cloth into as small a square as I could, shoving it into my pocket. And then, I waited. And waited.

Mr. Dessler did not come by with the box-like device until well past eleven that night, a bathrobe tossed over his clothes. His face looked grim; I couldn’t quite explain why.

“I thought we had an agreement.”

“We didn’t have any agreement. I have to do this, Christine. It’s for your own safety – and don’t give me lip like yesterday. Even if you’d keep mum about it, it’s just too risky with the police.”

Damn it. I frowned. Hopefully this back-up plan would work.

“Most of the other girls were released during the day,” I noted.

“And I would have done that if there weren’t patrols swarming the place,” he said. “Sit up, would you?”

I reached inside my pocket, hoping I would remember at least that much.

“Now,” he said as he fiddled with some buttons, “try and stay very still...”

This gun did not make as nearly loud a hum as his old one did. It was no louder than any other appliance.

My hand still in my pocket, I clenched it into a fist around the wadded-up cloth.

Even the click made by the trigger wasn’t as loud...

I wasn’t sure what happened afterwards; everything blurred into a big mass, punctuated only by a gentle, pulsing light. I could barely feel my body, barely take note of what was flashing before my eyes, let alone speak...

It was very dark. And cold. My mind reeling, a bout of dizziness coming over me, I stumbled. Squinted through the darkness. There was a house there. And two houses on either side of it. I was on a street, evidently, but which one? All I had to do was keep walking; I’d hit a corner eventually.

My right hand, buried inside my pocket, was cramping up. Frowning, I pulled it out as I walked, unclenching slowly. It was a scrap of cloth. My hand was bandaged, I reasoned; I must’ve used it to stem the flow. But I was all right now. I’d just keep walking and see if I couldn’t find a garbage can to toss it in.

The sign at the corner said I was standing on Windermere, where it intersected with Fairbanks Drive. Okay. This wasn’t so bad. I’d never been extensively down Windermere, but if I could make my way to Queen’s Avenue, I might be able to make it to the store. Possibly. I could be closer to the Saluccis, for all I knew.

I passed five more corners before I hit Queen’s (I breathed a sign of relief) and started walking. What direction I was going, I wouldn’t have been able to say, but the many, many streetlamps were enough to give a sense of my surroundings. No houses I recognised. Keep walking, I told myself. I knew I was bound to hit something eventually.

I froze. The dizziness had gone – but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was, now I was sure I was being followed. I whirled on my heel to meet nothing but an empty street behind me. No one there. I tried to take a few calming breaths as I turned around and kept walking, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. My heart was starting to race. It was the middle of the night for all I knew, there were bound to be horrible people out then and I was a walking target...

As I kept on, feeling an ache beginning in my legs, I saw the faintest traces of pink in the skies far to my right. Keep walking, I told myself. The nagging feeling that there was someone behind me refused to go away, no matter how many times I tried turning around quickly to catch ‘them’ in the act. By the time I saw the sign of the store off in the distance, dawn was finally underway, the sky turning from blues and purples to pinks and oranges, casting a faint golden light across the ground.

I didn’t know what time it was, but by the time I had finally become level with the store, my legs really starting to ache, Theophanes had stepped out a side door, looking unusually well-dressed in a trench coat and suit. He also looked rather grim, but he was the sort of person who looked serious no matter what, so I might have been reading too much into things. He was about to get into his car, fiddling with the automatic lock button on his keys, when he glanced up and spotted me. It was just as well; I was directly behind his car now, and I didn’t like the idea of being run over.

“Good Lord,” he said, more to himself than me. But it was good for me that he was a very calm person – at least, that was the impression I’d gotten from the brief time I’d seen him – because if he got all bent out of shape I didn’t really know what I would do. “My dear, are you all right?”

I opened my mouth to speak. Then drew a blank. Was I all right? “I...think so. It’s kinda cold out here.”

“Of course,” he said, his shocked expression not really changing. “Come on inside. Ruth’s just getting up now.”

He tried to put a comforting hand on my shoulder as he walked me back to the side entrance, which I had never been in before, but I think he felt as awkward doing it as I felt with him making the effort, so he took it off at the first opportunity: to open the screen door.

“Ruth!” Theophanes called, suggesting I walk up the stairs.

“What?” was the response, and none too lively at that.

“Would you come over here?”

“Not unless you say ‘please’,” she said right back.

“I’m serious, Ruth!” he said, followed shortly by something in the sing-song language. That seemed to be enough to rouse her into coming to the stairway as we headed up, wearing a striped robe and holding a cup of coffee – which she nearly dropped as she spotted me, her face going a shade whiter.

“Oh, hon, are you all right?” she said frantically.

I could only shrug. “I think so.”

She whisked me into the kitchen, Theophanes and her engaging in a quiet, but frantic conversation in that stupid language. I was right there. So was Konstancja, sitting at the kitchen table, looking frustrated. But she always looked unhappy in some way or another. She spotted me, arched an eyebrow, and went right back to eating breakfast as if nothing was wrong.

“Some food is left on oven,” she said.

“Hello to you too,” I said. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Have you ever been kept awake by baby kicking your ribs? No? Then do not snap at me. Bad enough store was broken into.”

“The store was broken into?”

“You must be starvin’, hon, I’ll make some breakfast,” Ruth said.

(“I said there was food there,” Konstancja said irritably. “Does no one listen?”)

“What’s this about the store being broken into?”

“Oh,” Ruth said, “We came down yesterday morning and saw someone’d gone through the books. Left ‘em scattered all over the floor; we just assumed they’d taken some.”

My hand instinctively clutched the bloodied piece of fabric tighter. I withdrew my fist slowly, the gauze unpeeling slightly as it scraped against my jeans. I had kept the fabric for a reason, but what that was wasn’t coming to mind...

“What’s that?” Theophanes said.

“Oh, a bit of cloth. I must’ve cut myself,” I said, peeling back the falling gauze. On my palm, a thin red line crossed diagonally across my palm. The wound had healed somewhat; it was no longer bleeding, but was still very red, the skin sticky from an ointment. I frowned. How had that happened?

“Hey, where’s your bathroom? I should probably wash this off.”

“Down the hall, to your right.”

The bathroom was small and somewhat monochromatic. I stared at myself in the mirror, my hair somewhat unkempt and tangled. I began to wash the cut, hissing – it stung still. I glanced at my reflection again – the mirror. What was so important about a mirror? Besides the fact they had them everywhere here...

It hit me as I came back into the kitchen.

“Feeling better?” Ruth said.

“Yes. I think I cut myself on a mirror.”

“And how would that have happened?” Theophanes said.

“It must’ve broke,” I said. “Dunno how. I must’ve tried to clean it up and cut myself.”

That explanation didn’t sound right, but it was the most logical.

While I was eating, Ruth called my mother, and within fifteen minutes – if that – the small upstairs apartment was a hub of activity – my mother (“Gott sei danke!” she said, relief written all over her face.), the police, and several small search parties my mother had organised. The kitchen looked like it couldn’t hold much more.

And, from there on, I was beginning to understand why all the other girls that had been found had such a dazed look on their faces – I couldn’t remember anything useful, and I refused to let them take the strip of bloodied cloth, even though I knew it was irrational. But after breakfast it was a whirlwind of things: to the hospital, where I was subjected to an exam I didn’t want to think about.

“I’m pretty sure I wasn’t raped,” I said to one of the doctors. “I think I’d feel that even if I couldn’t remember it.”

But the doctor gave me some nonsense about date-rape drugs and how the fact that I couldn’t remember meant they had to deal with that possibility, just in case, which I thought was inherently stupid, because I knew I hadn’t been on a date the last I recalled. I had been at the Dessler place. But they went through it anyway, conducted by a very pleasant female doctor whose name I couldn’t quite pronounce. I tried not to look at her. I tried to look at the ceiling. The lights were flickering ever-so-slightly, probably because they were burning out. For some reason that was familiar. Not the lights, mind you, the fact that it was flickering, pulsing from dim to brighter every so often.

“I think the bulb needs to be changed, don’t you?” the doctor said cheerily, a thick accent to her voice. I couldn’t place it.

“Yeah,” I said. “How’s it look, Doctor...er...”

“Bansabira, dear. Everything looks fine; you should be okay.”

“Bansabira,” I repeated. “Is that Arabic?”

“Greek, actually,” she said.

It didn’t sound Greek. But then again, I had never met a Greek person.

And after that I was subjected to very frustrating questioning from the police. Very frustrating. They were asking all these things that somewhere, in the back of my mind, I knew the answer to – but the answer wasn’t coming. And even though I clutched the strip of cloth, stared down at the fresh gauze wrappings, nothing came to mind. I was drawing a huge blank.

Finally, when they couldn’t wring any more out of me, I was left alone. Or as alone as one could get in a hospital; every now and then, nurses and doctors would pass by. One of them, a nurse who looked similar to Dr. Bansabira – possibly her daughter or something – took a blood sample. Serena even came by once, her face seeming whiter than usual, wearing mint green scrubs with the hospital’s name stamped on them in black.

“You see why I told you to be safe?” she said while my mother was getting something to eat.

“No,” I said. “I can’t remember half of what happened.”

She frowned as she spotted the bit of cloth. “Want me to take that?”

“No, I’m good.”

“It’s just a piece of cloth.”

“I know,” I said. “I just think I should...hang onto it.”

“All right, if you insist,” Serena said, giving me an odd look. “Listen, do you want my phone number? If you want to talk...”

She said this even as she was scribbling it down on the nearest piece of paper. I was going to say, no, I didn’t really want her number, but she had finished, folded the paper, and passed it to be before I could.

“I’ve got to get back to work, but...if anything comes to mind, don’t hesitate to call.”

My mother was unusually quiet, speaking only to yell at the reporters who had already clustered near the hospital for a statement. The police trailed behind, translating her less-than-proper language into a more polite ‘no comment’. She was silent through the car ride home, except for a bit of talk as we reached the house:

“You have no idea how worried I was,” she said. “The police refused to declare missing-persons until at least forty-eight hours had passed. I told them what they could do with their forty-eight hours. They issued an Amber Alert, but with so little information...”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, playing with the frayed edges of the cloth.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m just glad you’re all right. After I got off the phone with your sister...well, I got my gun and was ready to go out and look for you myself.”

“How is Sylvia?” I said, trying to divert the conversation away. Mama was clearly upset.

“You can ask her yourself,” she said. “She rushed over on the first flight she could catch. She came in yesterday evening.”

“Oh,” I said in shock. “She didn’t have to – I mean, everyone else was let go around the same time, and...”

“Do you think I’m just going to sit around and hope you’re released all right?”

We pulled into the driveway just then, and I could see the figure of my sister – half-sister, if you wanted to be technical – in the doorway. When had I seen her last? Ah yes, a year ago. She had flown in for Papa’s funeral. Not a pleasant memory.

Sylvia looked very much like my mother to begin with – pale skin, wavy brown hair, about the same height, and a full figure – and so seeing her step out of the house was like seeing my mother twice. Except younger; even though she looked too old for her age, due to being outdoors a lot, she kept up her appearance more than my mother.

“Chris,” she said cupping my face in her hands; I craned my neck to look at her properly. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve had better days,” I said. I crashed onto my bed with relief and didn’t wake up until dinner, where Thom gave me a look that suggested I was touched in the head.

With Sylvia deciding to stay for a little while, we were forced into an awkward situation; there simply wasn’t enough beds in the house. I offered to sleep on the couch, but my mother wouldn’t hear of it; Sylvia took her bed and she took the couch, which sounded like a recipe for disaster.

And it was; there was no way I could do my morning routine without waking her. Even if she went to my room and slept there, I would still be bothering her – but what choice did I have?

Emily and Claire at the bus stop all but freaked out when they saw me, Claire pestering me with questions until Emily told her to shut up. People on the bus stared as I got on, and I got the feeling this was going to be a common sight. People stared as I got off the bus. Carly, standing out front despite the cold weather, eyed me warily but said nothing.

The biggest shock yet was of Shelby – the brace was finally off her ankle, and she walked normally, but I didn’t see her walk until later. All I heard was a shrill sound, something that brought something else to my attention, some similar noise that I couldn’t place my finger on why it was important. But I didn’t have time to think long, for I heard an excited eeeeeee and then Shelby tackled me. I think she was trying to hug me, but the sheer force of it sent me backwards, grasping the locker door for support.

“Oh my God!” she said once we had straightened up, her face white. “You’re okay!”

“Yeah,” I said; I liked Shelby but she had not released me from her death-grip and the closeness was beginning to get a little uncomfortable. “Um, listen, do you mind giving me a little room?”

She let go only reluctantly. “I was so worried! Your mom had search parties out and everything, and I wanted to go and help too but my mom wouldn’t let me. I’ll have to call her, like, right now and tell her you’re okay. She will be so relieved.”

She was getting a little emotional now, even as she pulled the cell phone out and all but shrieked at her mother on the other end. Mrs. Summers shrieked right back. Shelby insisted on walking me to Religion even though she was at risk of being late for her own class. And all the while she talked about how everything was while I was gone (“People were really worried. Even Carly looked surprised.”) to asking how I was (“Aren’t you scared still?”

“Not really,” I said. “I can’t remember much of what happened.”

“They say trauma does that,” she said, looking worried).

By the time I got to Religion, I had become somewhat accustomed to the odd stares. It hadn’t been the first time I’d been stared at, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, knowing my luck. O’Reilly, unflappable as always, walked in, locked the door, and began her lesson. Or tried to.

“Unless I’m sorely mistaken, Miss Schumacher isn’t teaching this class,” she said. “I am, and I’m standing up front.”

And then the lesson began for real. I scrawled notes, left as I usually did, and headed to History. People tended not to stare in the hallways, as I blended in too easily. But they stared when I stepped into the portable. Shelby was already there, her previous class being closer to it than mine; Carly and her group avoided eye contact; Eric blinked as if he wasn’t sure he was hallucinating me or not. I sat down beside Shelby, as usual.

Lunch came blissfully quickly, and Shelby and I assumed our usual spots. It was nice, going through the usual routine. Mind-numbing, in a pleasant way.

“Did Shawn go over to your house on the weekend?”

Shelby frowned. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“I stopped by Eric’s place on Sunday,” I said, remembering that much, “And of course we passed by your place. I saw an odd car in the driveway. Thought it might be him.”

“Yeah, he dropped by. We mostly watched movies.”

“You’re not going to comment on the fact that I was at Eric’s place?” I said. I was joking, but at the same time, not. Shelby usually would have jumped on that tidbit.

“Nah,” she said, “I talked with him yesterday after school. He was really beating himself up over it.”

“Over what?”

Shelby gave me an odd look. “You...don’t remember?”

I gestured with the same ‘tell me more’ gesture that she had used so many times before: “If I’m asking, obviously not.”

“Oh,” she said, not expecting this. She seemed to debate whether or not to tell me, before, finally: “He was driving you home, right, but he said he wanted to stop and get gas first because the tank was really low. So he goes in to pay, but he has to wait for someone to get to the register or something, okay, fine. He finally pays and gets back and you’re...gone.”

That...had happened? My hand went back to my pocket, instinctively, before I realised the scrap of cloth wasn’t there.

“So he thought maybe you’d gotten out to go to the washroom or something, and he waited there for a good half-hour until he kinda realised you were really gone, and freaked. Completely blanked out – panic, I guess. He didn’t even show up Monday; I called him when my mom went out. You should have heard him, holy shit he was taking it hard. Said he felt personally responsible.”

Shelby still looked worried, her mouth pressed into a thin line, which I didn’t usually see from her. There was a long silence between us as I tried to deal with this new information.

“And how is he now?”

“You saw him. I’m surprised he didn’t hug you or something. Maybe hugging’s not a guy thing.”

“But what about you?”

“What about me? I got my brace off yesterday and I’m fine. The more important thing is you. How are you feeling?”

“Besides this cut on my hand, I feel fine. Not sick or hurt or anything.”

“Do you want me to come over tonight? I can just hop a ride with you; the drivers don’t care.”

“My sister’s over; flew in from Australia. You can if you want.”

“You have a sister?” she said, somewhat surprised. “And of course I want to. I missed you.”

My mother was gone, as usual, when we arrived back home, but Sylvia was there, still looking rather jetlagged, and that was unusual. Introductions were made (“Wow she really looks like your mom,” Shelby noted. “Except with darker eyes.”

“I would hope so,” I said, “She is my mother’s daughter.”)

And we spent a good chunk of time in my room, talking about...well, random stuff. I had only been gone since...Sunday? Two days, or thereabouts – I had decided going to school the previous day was not a good idea, even though I could have at least made it to History if I’d tried – and yet it seemed like the whole world had changed in those two days, and Shelby desperately wanted to catch me up.

She stayed for dinner, courtesy of Sylvia (whose culinary tastes were far bolder than my mother’s; I think my stomach lining was seared away by the spices), and we talked rather than ate; Thom looked on moodily; my mother and Sylvia engaged in a little private conversation of their own, shifting from German to English when the situation called for it.

It was very late when her mother came to pick her up, greeting me with a firm hug of her own (“We were all so worried, Christine! I’m so glad you’re okay!”), seeming politely baffled at Sylvia’s appearance before realising that was not my mother, and leaving.

By the next day, the excitement had died down. Shelby was still being very attentive towards me, bringing me another tube of cookie dough for lunch, which we split between us. I had wanted to talk to Eric, to try and explain, or ask him why he was still feeling so bad, but he only offered a “Are you okay?” to me while on the way to History.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m completely fine.”

Physically, at least; mentally my thoughts were still a little jumbled. The last thing I clearly remembered was dinner at his place, then winding up on the street...two days later. But he didn’t need to know that; he was obviously still tearing into himself.

“That’s good,” he said. “I’m – I’m really sorry, Christine. It was my fault, it was really stupid of me—”

“You stopped to get gas,” I pointed out. “It wasn’t stupid at all.”

“At night in an empty station? I’m – I’m glad you’re all right, more than glad, but that doesn’t make up for what happened.”

And he quickly disappeared into the popular crowd, Carly latching onto his arm, trying to comfort him.

While everyone was still asleep on Saturday, I woke up as I usually did, washing up and heading out the door before anyone noticed. I left a note. It seemed the proper thing to do, considering what had happened. I had, without realising it, skipped Thursday to spend time with Shelby. Not that I think Ruth would have minded, but it was still a missed day. Ruth was not quite awake, as usual for weekends, and she looked shocked to see me. To put it politely.

“Hon, what’re you doin’ here?”

“It’s Saturday,” I said. “I work Saturdays. Don’t tell me your memory’s going, too?”

She didn’t smile at the joke as much as I would have liked; it was a weak smile, a faltering one. “Hon, you were found on Wednesday morning. No one expects you to come in and work so soon.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “Besides, I missed Thursday by accident. Better than hanging around with my sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“Half-sister, really.”

She recomposed herself: “I don’t blame you for missin’ a day, hon, but...if you want to.”

She had me doing cleaning – that store was cleaned amazingly often – for pretty much all of my shift, while she and Konstancja switched halfway through; Ruth manned the counter while Konstancja went upstairs.

“You don’t usually let her off until close.”

“That baby’s gonna come soon – within the month, I bet, maybe early December. She gets tired standing on her feet like that all day. Might as well give her a break.”

“D’you have a betting pool on the date?” I said.

“Wanted to, but I was the only one,” she said. “Theo doesn’t like to think ‘bout it and Konnie’s leavin’ it up to fate.”

“He doesn’t like to think about it?”

“He gets nervous ‘round kids, especially little ones,” she said, looking displeased at this fact, “Okay once they get older, but babies and littler ones spook ‘im for some reason.”

The shift went fine; Theophanes came in near the end, as he usually did, accompanied by a man that seemed vaguely familiar. He was introduced to me as Megalos Kyriaka – “he’s from Greece, you know,” Theophanes pointed out, “About, what? Three years now?” – and I dimly remembered him being in the store at one point.

“You probably did,” he said. “My wife likes to go here a lot, sometimes I tag along.”

And they went upstairs, all talking in the sing-song language. Ruth remained behind at the counter, tapping the beat of the song on the radio out with her hand.

“This just in, police have announced that they have found Carmen Seymour, who was declared missing last Saturday. She was taken into police custody and is said to be in good health...”

Something came back to me just then, barrelling into my head with a revelation so simple, yet so important that I’d wondered how I could forget it.

“Aw, shit!” I said, far too loudly. Ruth jumped, and I could hear movements upstairs.

“What?” Ruth and Theophanes said, at roughly the same time.

“Aw man, I just remembered what I’d forgotten and I am kicking myself for forgetting it,” I said.

“What?” Ruth said sharply.

“That was why I was carrying around that bit of cloth,” I said, the words spilling out. “There wasn’t a pen around so Carmen and I thought I could keep it around to jog my memory. I knew there was a reason I didn’t want to toss it but I just remembered now when the radio mentioned her name.”

“You were with her?” Ruth said cautiously.

“Yeah. She was really chatty. Thought if I remembered I could tell the cops. You saw how well that worked out.”

Ruth was looking at me now, rather sharply.

“Really sorry about that,” I said. “It was outta the blue, wasn’t it? I was just pissed at myself for forgetting – but she’s safe now. Won’t happen again.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Theophanes said, re-emerging from upstairs. His voice was pleasant, but guarded. I glanced between him and Ruth for a moment; they appeared to be having a battle of wills, staring silently at each other. Finally, they glanced away, and I didn’t know who’d won.

“How long until six?” Theophanes said to her.

“Twenty minutes, now.”

Ruth left the counter, checking the store for any customers. Finding none, she went over to the door and switched the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’. I frowned. What was with that? She usually tried to eke out as much business as she could.

“Hon,” she said, ever so calmly, “Maybe you and I should go upstairs for a bit.”

And with a sweeping gesture, she shooed me upstairs without further comment.