Angela tried to speak. Nothing came out. She licked her lips to moisten them, and finally managed to croak, “We need to take a detour.”
Dowsing for a terrified child when the driver couldn’t hear her screams and Angela couldn’t focus enough to be safe to drive was terrifying. She sat in the passenger seat clutching her temples and occasionally whimpering out an instruction, all of which Martin dutifully followed as soon as he was able. Sometimes she wanted him to turn in places where there was no road, following the telepathic signal as the crow flies, rather than as the highway administration drew the maps.
They’d been driving for an hour and half (including one brief stop for McDonalds when the kids woke up and started whining for fries), leaving the highway far behind. They were cruising along a small backroad just outside Roanoke, Virginia, when Angela abruptly sat bolt upright, throwing one arm out and across Martin’s barreled chest, like she thought she could stop the entire RV by pushing the driver deeper into his seat.
“We’re here,” she whispered. Then, louder, she repeated, “We’re here. Stop the RV, Martin! Stop the goddamn RV!”
Profanity was unusual, where Angela was concerned. Martin slammed one meaty foot on the brake, bringing the whole RV to a shuddering halt. Voices were raised in the back as the children protested this unusual stop. Angela barely noticed. She was already slamming the door open and leaping down, not even bothering to check for traffic as she darted across the road and began slogging through the tall grass on the other side.
“Angela, wait!” Martin turned off the ignition and lumbered after his wife.
He was almost across the road when he heard the back door of the RV slam. He winced. It had been too much to hope that the kids would stay inside when no one had explicitly told them to. It was even more unlikely to hope they’d listen if they were told to turn around.
“Try not to get hit by a car. Your mother would kill me,” he called.
“Yes, Grandpa,” they chorused dutifully, and kept following him.
By the time their motley little procession reached Angela, she was on her knees in front of a large, muddy storm drain, not seeming to either notice or care about what it was doing to her jeans.
“It’s all right,” she said, holding out both hands in a beseeching gesture. “You’re safe now. I promise, you’re safe now.”
“You’re not my mother!” shouted a thin, terrified voice from inside the drain. It sounded like a little girl; it sounded like she’d been crying. “Don’t you try to say that you’re her!”
“No, I’m not your mother,” Angela agreed. “I heard you calling for help.”
There was a long pause. “I didn’t say anything,” whispered the girl.
“You didn’t have to,” said Angela. “I’m the same as you are. I’m the same kind of person. I could hear you, even though you didn’t make a sound. I’m not your mother. We’re still family.”
There was another pause, even longer than the first. Then, very slowly, a child crawled out of the storm drain and into the light.
She was very pale, with a milky complexion that should have been flushed, with as hard as she’d clearly been crying, but was washed-out and waxen instead, like something had stolen all the blood from her body. Her eyes were blue, and her cheeks were clean, all the mud having been washed away by the tears. She had twigs and leaves tangled in her long black hair, which was almost identical to Angela’s. Everything about her was almost identical to Angela, like she was a carbon copy of the woman, cast in miniature and dressed in a muddy velvet dress that had probably been quite nice before she’d dragged it through an ocean of muck.
There was a tear in the knee of her muddy tights, and she was missing one of her sensible black flats.
“Who died?” blurted Alex. At twelve, he was the best of the trio at picking up on small details, and the worst at keeping his mouth shut about their implications.
The little girl turned wide blue eyes on him, and said gravely, “My parents.”
“Oh,” said Alex. There was an itching sensation at the edge of his mind, insisting the girl was his sister, his best and favorite sister, and he should take care of her. He shoved it aside. It was a stupid thought. Verity was his sister. Antimony was his sister. This girl was a stranger. He’d take care of her anyway, because that was the right thing to do, but that didn’t make her family.
Although from the way Grandma was looking at her, maybe she was going to be family soon after all.
The girl sniffled and wiped one eye with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of mud across her cheek. “I w-was sleeping over at Amy’s house and then the police were there, saying my parents were dead and did I have anywhere to stay. Amy’s mom let me sleep there until the funeral. And then . . . and then one of the cops tried to take me home. He said I was his daughter. But I wasn’t his daughter. I’m not. My parents died. So I ran from him, only everyone I see says I’m theirs and tries to steal me. It’s kidnapping. I wanna go home.”
The last word was virtually a wail. Angela sighed.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m sorry your parents died, and I’m sorry your home is gone. You’re not ours. We can’t replace what you’ve lost. But we’ll take care of you, if you’ll let us. We’ll do the best we can. All right?”
Tired and wet and cold and miserable, the girl sniffled, hard, and nodded.
“All right,” repeated Angela. “What’s your name?”
“Sarah,” said the girl, and the world was different, and everything began.
One
“There’s no such thing as ‘normal.’ Whoever came up with that idea was probably selling something nobody wanted to buy.”
—Jane Harrington-Price
Cleveland Hopkins International Airport, outside security
Now
YOU DON’T HAVE TO do this.” Angela held me by the shoulders, keeping her eyes locked on mine, like she could somehow overcome her own inability to receive projected thoughts and understand exactly what I was thinking. “No one’s going to think less of you if you need more time to heal. You know that.”
“Mom, I’m fine.” I put my left hand over hers, squeezing firmly, hoping the skin-on-skin connection would let her at least pick up some of my certainty. She might get my anxiety in the bargain, but she knew I was anxious. Everyone knew I was anxious. “I’ve had years. I need to do this. I can’t hide in my room forever.”
“You’re still recovering. What happened to you—”