Jessica Verday - The Hidden

Looking way too excited, she said, “You got it,” and headed out the door.

A breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding escaped me, and I turned back to Caspian. He reached under the sheet and pulled out his shirt. I was sad to see his bare skin get covered up. “Well, great,” I said. “Now I have to go do breakfast. Want to come with?”

“I’d say yes, but since she can’t see me and I don’t eat, I think I’ll just hang out here.” He blew me a kiss as I padded into the bathroom, and I returned the favor.

Already I was regretting Mom’s terrible timing, and wondered just how fast I could get back to him.

Half an hour later I entered the kitchen and glanced at the plate stacked ten waffles high, wondering how Mom had made so many so quickly. Then I took a seat at the table. “Did you make some for the neighbors, too?”

She grinned and brought them over to me. “I just wanted to make sure you had enough to eat.”

I neatly slid two waffles onto my plate. Mom came over with apple and orange juice, and plunked them both down next to me. Then she put a couple of waffles on her own plate and sat down.

“We should go get another mani-pedi once your sling is off,” she said, pausing in between bites. “I think I want to go red on my toenails.”

“Bright red? Or dark red?”

“I think dark red. Maybe maroon.”

I looked down and pushed the waffle around on my plate. Kristen’s casket was dark red … Then I said, “Hey, Mom, if someone else is spending a lot of money, but it’s a purchase for you, would you get to decide the details?”

“I don’t know what you mean. Like a car?”

“Yeah. Like a car. If someone bought a car but it was actually for someone else, could that person make the decision about the details? Like what paint color it is?”

Mom laughed. “Is this some kind of graduation gift hint, Abbey?”

I moved my waffle around again. I wasn’t sure how to say what I wanted to say. After all, how exactly do you blurt out, I’m going to die soon, and I’d like to make sure that my casket is red, without sounding like a crazy person?

“What’s your favorite flower?” I asked instead.

“Daylilies. White ones. I know they can be sort of Easterish, but I think they make such a beautiful display.”

Not exactly my first pick, but it wasn’t that bad.

“What about your favorite church song? Like a hymnal?”

Mom leaned back and thought about it for a minute. “I guess I’d go with ‘Oh, When the Saints Go Marching In.’”

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that one. ‘Oh, When the Saints Go Marching In’ is kind of peppy for a funeral.”

“A funer-?” Mom stared at me. “What did you just say?”

“Funerals have songs and flowers. I just wanted to know which ones you like.”

“Why are you talking about this, Abigail?” Mom’s voice had that high-pitched hysterical note in it again.

“Well, since Kristen died really young, it made me realize anything could happen. For my funeral I want a red casket. Like she had. White lilies are okay. I don’t really mind those. But pick a better song than ‘Oh, When the Saints Go Marching In,’ okay?”

Her fork clattered to the floor. Pushing back her chair, Mom stood up abruptly. “That’s not funny. This conversation is over. I’m not in the mood to watch any movies today. You’ll have to find something else to keep yourself occupied.”

She left the kitchen without saying another word, but her footsteps were angry as she stomped into the living room.

I stared down at my plate. Why was everyone around me so sensitive about death all of a sudden?

I went back upstairs to Caspian and threw myself down onto the bed. Groaning, I said, “You’re so lucky you don’t have a mother to deal with anymore.”

He didn’t respond.

I looked up, regretting the words already. He was sitting at my desk, hands folded. “Sorry. I didn’t mean …” I sighed loudly. “I keep doing this. Keep saying the wrong things. I don’t know what it is, but it’s like I’m all straight corners and bad angles.”

He came over and reached for my face. I sat still, unsure if he was actually going to try to touch me, or was going to keep some space between us. I felt the faint buzz on my cheek, and I turned my face toward him. “Is it November first yet?” I whispered.

Caspian shook his head and mouthed a silent No . But he held his hand there a bit longer. “Just let her get over everything, Abbey, okay? Give her some extra time. And space. She’s going to need it.”

“I know, I know. When did you get so smart?”

“I’ve always been this smart. Wait, are you into smart guys?”

“ Definitely into smart guys.” I smiled at him, then looked away. I didn’t know how much more of this not-touching I could take. It felt like this invisible wall was between us every time we got close, and I couldn’t tear it down. I got up and walked over to the window.

The window Vincent Drake had escaped from.

I traced a line down the glass. It made a soft rubbing noise as my finger slipped down it. An invisible trail left behind.

“Don’t you think it’s kind of messed up that the Revenants want me dead, while Vincent wants me alive?” I mused, keeping my fingertip on the glass pane.

Caspian came up behind me. “What did you say?”

“Vincent doesn’t want to kill me. In fact, he even told me not to do anything stupid.”

“What does he want, then?” he asked.

“Me. Alive. Why? I don’t know.”

I stared out the window, lost in my thoughts. I couldn’t stop the scene with Vincent from playing out again and again in my head. If I’d only done something different … defended myself somehow, or made him pay for what he’d done to Kristen … If only I could make it all go away …

I turned, and my eyes landed on an old perfume notebook gathering dust on the corner of my desk. I couldn’t even distract myself with a project; all of my perfuming supplies had been inside the cabinet Vincent had destroyed.

“I wish I had something new to work on,” I said. “Maybe it’s time to take Mom on a little shopping trip for some perfume stuff. Spend some quality time together. That should make her happy.” I crossed over to the chair and rested my sling on the desk.

“You could always learn to draw,” he replied.

“I could? Know anyone who would teach me?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He picked up his drawing pad and a charcoal, then sat down on the bed. “Come here.”

Quickly abandoning the desk, I went to go sit beside him. Caspian flipped to a new page and pointed to it. “Draw a tree,” he instructed.

“I can’t. It’s not going to be any good. I can barely hold a pencil, let alone draw anything.”

“So? Just try.”

I sighed, then grasped the charcoal carefully. It left black streaks on my fingers. Conjuring up all of the things my elementary school art teacher had once said about basic shapes and “becoming one with the object,” I tried to sketch the barest outline of a tree.

It looked like a squiggle.

My hand shook as I tried to smooth it out, tried to press the charcoal down harder and make the branches take shape, the trunk appear, the limbs extend outward.

It still looked like a squiggle. Only … worse.

“Yeah, I got nothing.”

Caspian looked down at it. “That’s not true.”

“I have some black smears. Hardly anything to get excited about.” I turned the page sideways and studied it, putting the charcoal down. “Hey, if you look at it this way, it kind of looks like a giant monster hand or something.”