“Well?” There’s a note of anxiety in Alex’s voice. “What do you think?”
I can’t answer him immediately. Alex has shoved the old bed out of the way, into one of the corners, and swept the floor perfectly clean. The windows—or what windows remain—are flung open, so the air smells like gardenias and night-blooming jasmine, their scents drifting in on the wind from outside. He has arranged our blanket and books in the center of the room and unraveled a sleeping bag there too, surrounding the whole area with dozens and dozens of candles stuck in funny makeshift canisters, like old cups and mugs or discarded Coca-Cola cans, just like they were at his house in the Wilds.
But the best part is the ceiling: or rather, the lack of ceiling. He must have broken through the rotted wood to the roof, and now an enormous patch of sky is once again stretched above our heads. There are fewer stars visible in Portland than on the other side of the border, but it’s still beautiful. Even better, the bats—disturbed from their roost—have gone. Far above us, outside, I see several dark shapes looping back and forth across the moon, but as long as they stay in the open air, they don’t bother me.
All of a sudden it hits me: He did this for me. Even after what happened today, he came and did this for me. Gratitude overwhelms me, and another feeling too, bringing with it a twinge of pain. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve him. I turn back to him and can’t even speak; his face is lit up with flame and he seems to be glowing, transforming into fire. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
“Alex—” I start to say, but can’t finish. Suddenly I’m almost frightened of him, terrified of his absolute and utter perfection.
He leans forward and kisses me. And when he’s pressed so close to me, with the softness of his T-shirt brushing my face and the smell of suntan lotion and grass coming off his skin, he feels less frightening.
“It’s too dangerous to go back to the Wilds.” His voice is hoarse, as though he’s been yelling for a very long time, and a muscle is working furiously in his jaw. “So I brought the Wilds here. I thought you would like it.”
“I do. I—I love it.” I press my hands against my chest, wishing I could somehow be even closer to him. I hate skin; I hate bones and bodies. I want to curl up inside of him and be carried there forever.
“Lena.” Different expressions are passing over his face so quickly I can barely catch them all, and his jaw keeps twitching back and forth. “I know we don’t have much time, like you said. We hardly have any time at all. . . .”
“No.” I bury my face in his chest, wrap my arms around him and squeeze. Unimaginable, incomprehensible: a life lived without him. The idea breaks me—the fact that he’s almost crying breaks me—the fact that he did this for me, the fact that he believes I’m worth it—kills me. He is my world and my world is him and without him there is no world. “I won’t do it. I won’t go through with it. I can’t. I want to be with you. I need to be with you.”
Alex grasps my face, bends down to look in my eyes. His face is blazing now, full of hope.
“You don’t have to go through with it,” he says. His words come tumbling out. He’s obviously been thinking about this for a long time and only trying not to say it. “Lena, you don’t have to do anything. We could run away together. To the Wilds. Just go and never come back. Only—Lena, we couldn’t ever come back. You know that, right? They’d kill us both, or lock us up forever. . . . But Lena, we could do it.”
Kill us both. Of course, he’s right. A lifetime of running: that’s what I’ve just said I wanted. I take a quick step backward, feeling suddenly dizzy. “Wait,” I say. “Just hold on a second.”
He releases me. The hope dies in his face all at once, and for a moment we just stand there, looking at each other. “You weren’t serious,” he says finally. “You didn’t mean it.”
“No, I did mean it, it’s just—”
“It’s just that you’re scared,” he says. He walks to the window and stares out at the night, refusing to look at me. His back is terrifying again: so solid and impenetrable, a wall.
“I’m not scared. I’m just . . .” I fight a murky feeling. I don’t know what I am. I want Alex and I want my old life and I want peace and happiness and I know that I can’t live without him, all at the same time.
“It’s okay.” His voice is dull. “You don’t have to explain.”
“My mother,” I burst out. Alex turns then, looking startled. I’m as surprised as he is. I didn’t even know I was going to say the words until I said them. “I don’t want to be like her. Don’t you understand? I saw what it did to her, I saw how she was. . . . It killed her, Alex. She left me, left my sister, left it all. All for this thing, this thing inside of her. I won’t be like her.” I’ve never really spoken about this, and I’m surprised by how difficult it is. Now I have to turn away, feeling sick and ashamed that the tears have started again.
“Because she wasn’t cured?” Alex asks softly.
For a moment I can’t speak, and I just let myself cry, silently now, hoping he can’t tell. When I have control of my voice, I say, “It’s not just that.”
Then all of it comes rushing out, the details, things I’ve never shared with anyone before: “She was so different from everybody else. I knew that—that she was different, that we were different—but it wasn’t scary at first. It just felt like our little, delicious secret. Mine, and hers, and Rachel’s, too, like we were in a cocoon. It was . . . It was amazing. We kept all the curtains drawn so no one could see in. We used to play this game where she would hide in the hallway and we would try to run past her and she would leap out and grab us—playing goblin, she called it. It always ended in a tickle war. She was always laughing. We were all always laughing. Then every so often when we got too loud, she would clap her hands over our mouths and get all tense for a second, listening. I guess she was listening for the neighbors, to make sure none of them were alarmed. But no one ever came.
“Sometimes she would make us blueberry pancakes for dinner, as a treat. She picked the blueberries herself. And she was always singing. She had a beautiful voice, just gorgeous, like honey—”
My voice cracks, but I can’t stop now. The words are pouring, tumbling out. “She used to dance, too. I told you that. When I was little I would stand with my feet on top of hers. She would wrap her arms around me and we would move slowly around the room while she counted out the beat, tried to teach me about rhythm. I was terrible at it, clumsy, but she always told me I was beautiful.” Tears make the floorboards blur beneath my feet.
“It wasn’t all good, not all the time. Sometimes I would get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and I’d hear her crying. She always tried to muffle it by turning into her pillow, but I knew. It was terrifying when she cried. I’d never seen a grown-up cry before, you know? And the way she did it, the wailing . . . like some kind of animal. And there were days she didn’t get out of bed at all. She called those her black days.”
Alex moves closer to me. I’m shaking so badly I can hardly stand. My whole body feels like it’s trying to expel something, cough something up from deep in my chest. “I used to pray that God would cure her of the black days. That he would keep her—keep her safe for me. I wanted us to stay together. Sometimes it seemed like the praying worked. It was good most of the time. It was more than good.” I can barely bring myself to say these words. I have to force them out in a low whisper. “Don’t you get it? She left all that. She gave it up—for, for that thing. Love. Amor deliria nervosa—whatever you want to call it. She gave me up.”