The Tear Collector Page 17

  “I’m asking for Veronica to sacrifice for me! I’m asking for someone to help me!”

  Another pause. A pause lasting a lifetime of lifetimes. A pause ticking away the precious minutes of Scott’s existence. The only sound in the world is my mom’s silence.

  “Mom, there’s no more time. He’s almost dead!” I shout over Samantha’s crying.

  “Cassandra, I’m sorry but—”

  “If you don’t do this for me,” I say, “then you won’t call me Cassandra again.”

  “What will I call you?” she asks.

  I pause, sigh, and imagine the impact on her face. “You can call me Siobhan.”

  More silence on her end of the phone; more crying from Samantha in the background.

  “We’ll meet you there,” Mom says.

  “Thank you, thank you,” I reply.

  “Don’t thank me. You will need to thank Veronica,” she says.

  “I will. I’m so—”

  Mom cuts me off with words that sting like the end of a lash: “Then you’ll owe her.”

  “I know,” I say. “We’re on our way.”

  I click the phone, then turn to Samantha. “We have to go.”

  “Which hospital?” she asks.

  I crawl over to help her as we pull Scott out of the van.

  “We’re not going to a hospital.”

  “Then where are we going?” she asks, sounding angry and confused.

  “To Avalon.”

  Samantha shakes her head in disbelief, and I say only, “You can trust me.”

  We’re strong, but it’s hard moving Scott’s dead—or nearly dead—weight. It’s a struggle, but we pull him out of the crashed van and into Samantha’s car a few feet away. I don’t see Alexei’s body anywhere.

  When we arrive at Avalon Convalescence Care, Mom’s SUV is waiting for us in the employee parking lot in back. Other than Mom’s car, there are only two other vehicles.

  Maggie greets me as Samantha and I exit her car. Mom stands to the side.

  “Who is that?” Maggie asks, pointing at Samantha, who looks scared.

  “A friend,” I reply, thinking how inadequate that word sounds now.

  “If she’s not family,” Maggie whispers, “she stays behind.”

  “Don’t you think Veronica will need her?” I whisper back.

  Maggie ponders the questions, then says, “She can’t know.”

  “She doesn’t understand, I’ll keep it that way,” I lie directly to Maggie’s face.

  “You are drowning,” Mom says. “You are in too—”

  “Not now!” I cut her off. “Scott needs her help!”

  Maggie nods, then heads inside. Mom goes to the car with me but refuses to make eye contact with Samantha.

  Mom checks Scott’s pulse, then shakes her head. “He might be too far gone.”

  “No!” I shout.

  Maggie emerges from the employees-only door pushing two wheelchairs. She leaves one near Mom’s SUV, then brings the other one to Samantha’s car.

  “We need your help,” Maggie says to Samantha.

  The four of us move Scott’s limp body from the front of Samantha’s car into the wheelchair. Mom and Maggie move quickly back to the car while I get behind the chair and start to push it up the ramp.

  Samantha grabs my hand and asks, “What’s happening?”

  “I can’t explain now,” I say, softly.

  “Will he be okay?”

  “Maybe, but he’ll need your help.”

  “What else can I do?” Samantha asks, eager to help, but unsure of what will be asked.

  I turn, then point at Mom’s car. Maggie and Mom are helping Veronica into the second wheelchair. She looks weak, too weak for what I’m asking her to do. “You need to go to the woman in the wheelchair. She needs you.”

  “Who is that?”

  “That’s the matriarch of our family, Veronica.”

  “I don’t understand,” Samantha mutters.

  “You’re not supposed to. Don’t say anything,” I say. “Go to her. She needs your energy.”

  “Energy?”

  “Give her every tear left in your body,” I say, then hug her as if to force every ounce of liquid in her body toward her eyes. I hand her the folded-up paper with her poem, then say, “Show her that you hurt, hurt, hurt. Scott’s life depends on it.” Samantha leaves me, and I push Scott up the ramp.

  Most of the lights are out as I push Scott through the deserted halls. Maggie meets me just short of our destination.

  “There are only a few people on staff tonight,” she says. “I told them I had some paperwork I needed to finish. They’ll leave us alone.”

  “Where’s Veronica?” I ask in desperation.

  Maggie leans forward, then takes Scott’s pulse again. “You’re right, we need her now.”

  I hear the click of Maggie’s shoes against the floor almost in time with the beeping of the machines. I push Scott inside the room. He’s still not moving, but then again, neither is his grandmother. Machines keep her alive, but now it’s only Veronica who can keep Scott among the living. Both Scott’s and his grandmother’s bodies are at rest; the inertia needs to be changed.

  Mom pushes Veronica into the room minutes later. Her short time with Samantha must have been well spent. Even in the near darkness of the hall, she’s almost glowing with energy.

  “This is for you,” I say to her, handing her the handkerchief monogrammed with her initials. Wrapped inside it is the gauze with Scott’s tears. Veronica removes a vial from her jacket and sets it on the table next to Scott’s grandmother’s bed. The room’s mostly dark, except for the light of the life-giving machines. Maggie sets a bowl on the table, then Veronica fills it with the contents from the vial. Mom steps in and takes the gauze from Veronica’s hand. She dips it in the bowl, then puts the cloth on Veronica’s face. It covers her face as if she’s wearing a veil.

  Filled with energy from Samantha and Scott, Veronica lifts herself out of the wheelchair and says, “You all must leave.”

  Before I can say anything, Veronica removes the cloth from her face and lets it rest on her shoulder. Her bright eyes stare through me, then she shuts the door behind us.

  Moments that seem like hours later, we hear a holy trinity of sounds: a deep breath probably from Scott, a thud most likely from Veronica collapsing back into the wheelchair, and a last gasp from Scott’s grandmother. One second later, the only noise is the flatlining beep from the monitor next to Scott’s grandmother’s bed. Mom opens the door and quickly grabs Veronica’s wheelchair. Mom wheels Veronica past Maggie and me as we rush into the room.

  I see Scott is breathing, but his grandmother’s heart isn’t beating. Veronica soaked up the energy in one life and transferred it to another. I grab Scott’s wheelchair and head for the exit. He’s barely conscious, but tries to speak. His words are garbled from the pain in his mouth, the blood in his throat, and the air reentering his lungs.

  “Scott, are you okay?” I ask once we’re outside. He still can’t talk, but his eyelids flutter. I hold him tightly, not to capture his tears, but so I can hear the beat of his heart. I wonder if he can hear my heart. My almost-human heart.

  CHAPTER 18

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15

  Are you coming with us or not?”

  Mom’s reply is the same reply I’ve received from her since Scott’s grandmother’s death. Total silence. I’m emerging from my bedroom, my mood somber from the news I’ve seen on the computer this morning and the day stretched out before me. It will be odd to go to a funeral and sit in the pews rather than assisting at the altar, but everything will be odd from now on.

  “You should come,” I say to Mom. “Maggie’s coming with me.”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” she finally says.

  “I’m sorry for what I’ve done, but I didn’t have any choice,” I reply, thinking about the choices I might have to make if I decide to follow Siobhan’s example. Mom answers with a hard stare
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  I escape Mom’s disapproving eyes and head downstairs, where Maggie is waiting for me. We’re both wearing black dresses befitting our place in the generations.

  “What does he know?” Maggie asks as we leave the house. “What does the girl know?”

  “She doesn’t know anything,” I lie to her. I’ve protected my family and our way of life for so long through silence. I will do the same now to protect my friends. Samantha will need to know that silence is her only protection. “And Scott doesn’t remember anything.”

  “You’re sure?” she asks.

  “That’s what he told me,” I relate. I’ve only talked with Scott briefly, but learned that much from him. Today, after his grandmother’s funeral, I’ll try to find out more. But I know from peer counseling training how trauma destroys timelines and connections. Whatever part of Scott’s brain tries to recall, the other half—the stronger half bent on survival—will suffocate.

  “And that girl?” Maggie continues as we walk to the car. “Samantha, right?”

  “Samantha’s a joke. She thinks monsters are real,” I say, then fake a laugh. “Even if she knows something, no one would believe her. She’s the girl who cried werewolf.”

  “What about you?” she asks.

  “What about me?”

  “All of this—the miracle you witnessed in the nursing home, whatever happened or didn’t happen with Alexei—all of it,” Maggie says, almost accusingly. “What about you?”

  “I’m the same,” I mumble. I remember reading somewhere the bigger the lie, the more likely people are to believe it.

  “Cassandra, I don’t believe you,” she says.

  “I don’t know what else to tell you,” I say, then sigh.

  “You’re not the same,” she says. “And you haven’t been for a long time.”

  “You’re wrong,” I say as we climb into the car.

  “No, Cassandra, I’m right. You can deny it, but I know. I’ve known it for a while.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I knew you were changing,” she says. “Ever since that day you got so mad at us.”

  “You mean every day,” I say, and let out a small laugh. She doesn’t respond.

  “The day you said you made all the sacrifices,” she says. “I guess you were wrong.”

  I pause for a second, thinking how no action is without impact. “How is Veronica?” I ask.

  “She’s already started to rebuild her strength,” she says. “She’s so damn strong.”

  “I didn’t know it would take so much out of her,” I say slowly because Maggie’s tone seems wrong, as does her choice of words. The angry hard look on her face tells even more.

  “Maggie, you seem so angry,” I say. “What is going on?”

  “I’ll set a good example and be honest with you. It’s time you know anyway,” she says.

  “Time I know?”

  “It is my turn to be matriarch instead of Veronica,” she says. “Just as it is your turn to be with Alexei.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. As part of the youngest generation, I know I’ve been kept in the dark about many rules of our lives. The more rules I learn, the more I have to fight against.

  “It is time for my mother to go, so I can take over as the head of the family,” Maggie says. We’re sitting in a modern car talking about the ancient ways. “But she refuses to go.”

  “And then what happens to me?” I ask.

  “Then you bring in the next generation, and you become the mother in the family,” she continues. “Do you understand now why Veronica wasn’t angrier with you about Alexei?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask as I ponder Veronica’s anger, that now seemed all an act.

  “If you don’t mate, then the next generation doesn’t begin,” she continues. “And she can stay on, even if it is supposed to be my time. Cassandra, you’re not the selfish one, Veronica is.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It is our nature,” she says, as she backs out of the driveway.

  I sink into myself. I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t tell her that I’m learning to defy my nature. She can’t know that I feel love and that I want to feast on happiness, not sadness.

  “A lot has happened these past few days, Cassandra, but your family is always going to be there for you,” she says softly. “And you need to be there for them, no matter what.”

  “I know,” I say, but without any conviction.

  “So, Cassandra, are you still one of us, or have you become one of them?” she asks.

  I never speak out at school unless I am one hundred percent sure of the answer. Maggie and I drive to Saint Dominic’s in total silence.

  Scott looks to have regained some strength as he, along with other men from Saint Dominic’s Church, carry his grandmother’s casket up the aisle. I’d like to sit with him, but death, like life, is about family. I sit with Maggie. Samantha is next to me; she holds her notebook in one hand and the other presses a tissue against her cheek. For once, being dressed head-to-toe in black is appropriate and accepted. As the church fills with tears, every cell in me seeks them out. Samantha seems to have overcome her inability to express emotion by allowing herself to cry in public. I fight off the urge to touch her. I still don’t know if I can provide real comfort. All my life, I’ve only pretended compassion when what I really did was consume.

  The service goes on for a long time, as several members from Saint Dominic’s speak in addition to Father Morrison. All of them talk about what a giving person Scott’s grandmother was, and I can’t help but think about my family: who gives, who takes, and what is owed. Veronica has said nothing to me since the incident, mainly because she lacks the energy to speak. Mom attends to her every day, and for that reason alone, I’m surprised she’s not mixing in among the mourners to take her share of energy. Once again, it falls to me to serve Veronica.

  “Death is the far-right bookend,” Scott says when it is his turn to speak. He looks uncomfortable in his black suit; his words are barely understandable through his obviously still painful mouth. He speaks slowly yet softly, as if the gauze were still in him soaking up his blood. Alexei tortured him with those dental tools—jabbing at gums, pulling teeth, anything to cause fear and pain in order to produce tears. Scott’s mouth will heal; that trauma will linger.

  “And my grandmother’s life, like every life, was filled with stories,” Scott says, then tells stories about his grandmother’s life. The microphone bounces his words off the stained-glass images of saints and martyrs. I try to pay attention, but my thoughts are elsewhere, yet also right above me. At Saint Dominic’s, our family sits on the left side, underneath the stained-glass Stations of the Cross. We always sit under station six: Veronica wipes Jesus’ face with her veil. Just as Alexei’s family would normally sit under the fifth station: Simon carries Jesus’ cross.

  “The sad thing in death is knowing there are no more stories to create. There are only stories to tell. As long as a person remains alive in story, they remain alive in spirit,” Scott says, then his eyes look out over the crowded church. He pauses, then finds me in the crowd. “So, tell stories of your own family. If you do this, then each family lives longer than their time on earth.”

  “Your speech was nice,” I tell Scott as I slip next to him in the receiving line. I sat with Maggie in church, but I’m standing with Scott as people prepare to walk past to pay their respects to him. This, more than the upcoming prom, bestows official girlfriend status on me.

  “Thanks,” he whispers, then pulls me closer to him.

  “I’m so sorry, Scott,” I say.

  “It was time.”

  “Not just about your grandmother, but about the other thing,” I say softly.

  He looks away from me; I don’t blame him.

  “Alexei is my cousin. Like I told you, he’s insane,” I explain. “He stole my phone. Nothing happened between us. There’s no one but you, Scott.”
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  “I believe you, Cass,” he says, then starts to cry. As I touch one of Scott’s tears, I know instantly everything is all right between us. I’ve learned that every tear, just like every grain of sand, has a different texture. But tears of any kind now rip me apart.

  “Please don’t cry,” I say. I’ve never said these three words together before. Scott can never know that my saying “please don’t cry” is proof that the words “I love you” are true.

  Scott takes a deep breath and pulls himself together. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He tries to smile, but can’t. Instead, he says, “That’s the only thing I really remember clearly.”

  “What?”

  “Your voice asking me if I was okay,” he whispers. “And I knew, because it was your voice, everything would be okay.”

  “You don’t remember anything else?” I ask as I take hold of his hand.

  “Nothing else that matters,” he says, then kisses me on the cheek. His mom clears her throat and the mourners start to file past. And in a way, I’m mourning too. Not for Scott’s grandmother but for myself—what I was and what I hope to become. I’m not there yet. Once again I find myself in between. So while I stand in this line for Scott and offer compassionate embraces to all the grieving relatives, I must still be here for my own family. I owe them.

  After the last person passes by, we all gather outside next to the hearse. Scott joins the other men from the church lifting the white coffin into the black vehicle. Before he gets into the limo that will lead the procession to the cemetery, I go up to him and give him another kiss. Then I wipe away his tears with the soft gentleness of my hand instead of the coarseness and calculation of my monogrammed handkerchief. I wipe away his tears, not for me or for Veronica, but for him.

  As the hearse starts off toward the cemetery, I head back to Maggie’s car, where together we start the drive in silence. As we pull into the funeral possession behind a long line of limos, Maggie finally speaks. “You didn’t answer my question. I saw you with Scott. Are you still—?”

  “I didn’t answer because I don’t know.”

  “Cassandra, I know this is hard for you. It was for me, and your mother,” Maggie says as we drive slowly to the cemetery. “But you have a duty to your family.”