A Boat Made of Bone (The Chthonic Saga) (15 page)

“Wow. That’s not an obvious attempt to avoid the subject. You know that, right? Will, I need to tell you something. Usually when I wake up, I forget who you are. I’d get like . . . like amnesia, or whatever, and then when the dream would begin, you’d have to help me remember you. Right?”

“London sounds good to me. I trained there for a while. Couldn’t get enough of that city. It never ends. It’s city as far as the eye can see.” He stretched his hand out and gazed into the distance outside the towering half-circle of windows. It was still dark outside except for the night sky. They’d been there before, many times, but it was only this time that Kate remembered that the room and herself had a history.

She cleared her throat, unwilling to let him control the conversation, and pressed on with her story. “Well, this time, at work, I saw a TV show you were in. I saw you in my waking world. I saw you and I recognized your name. You were . . . you were beautiful. But . . . it was so hard to see you and know you were a day away from me. I got this, this insane ache. Like, because I couldn’t touch you. There’s this 80s movie. It reminds me of us.
Lady Hawke
. Have you ever seen it?”

He dropped his hands to his side and nodded. “Yes. Before I died.”

“You know what I mean, then.”

“I do. But enough of this sad talk, Kate. Let’s do something! Go somewhere! Live a little!” He perked up and snapped his fingers like he was trying to sell an elixir to a crowd of wary townsfolk that he knew wouldn’t work.

“There’s time for that later, Will,” she answered, beginning to feel sulky. Why did he have to avoid all seriousness? “When I began the dream tonight, I still remembered you. Everything. Did you notice? You didn’t have to help me.”

“I guess it just slipped by me. But you’re right. That’s something. What do you think it means?” He paced in front of her across a bamboo floor mat.

“I don’t know. It seems like progress, of some kind.”

“Like things are heading in a better direction. No more of this . . . this limbo. Although I enjoy it, seems like there should be more. Something better.” He stared into the distance, a shadow sweeping across his features like a dark, dirty wind in the desert.

Well, now that he’d done what she wanted, the conversation seemed as pointless as he’d seemed to anticipate it would be. Maybe there was something to just having fun together. And yet . . . that began to feel like running on a hamster wheel in a cage—the only point was to run. Nothing more.

“Uh, well. So you trained in London?” she rose to her knees and crawled across the bed to reach him.

“Yes,” he said, somberly. He was shirtless, wearing just a pair of black boxer shorts.

“Tell me about this training,” she implored.

“I trained. Nothing more to say about it. Just, it was what it was. A few years across the pond.” The gloom began to lift from his face. He perked up suddenly like he’d just had a brilliant idea. “Kate? Go with me to London and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

She studied him. “Do you promise?”

He came to stand before her where she knelt upright. He put his hands under her elbows, pulled her close, and looked down at her. “Kate, you have my word that if you come to London with me, I’ll tell you what you’ve been dying to know about my time on Earth. Well, most of it.” He laughed.

“No deal.”

“Fine, anything. All of it,” he relented. 

“Alright then,” she said, shutting her eyes and reaching out mentally.

When she opened them again, they were in the midst of a teeming mass of people, standing upon a bridge. An ancient city surrounded them, balanced on a figurative precipice, teetering between history and the present, seething with life as people chatted on cell phones against the backdrop of the Tower of London and Big Ben. Kate had never been to London. Her mouth dropped open, gaping, as she twirled around to take it all in.

“Impressive, isn’t she?”

“London?”

“Yes, this city is a girl, don’t you think?”

“If I had to pick one or the other, well, it certainly isn’t a boy.” A cold breeze swept up off the river and she shivered.

“There’s always a chill to it. Especially in the spring.”

“We should have come in the summer.” She laughed. They could have changed it if they wanted. They didn’t.

Will took Kate’s hand and led her through the crowd, which parted for them as though by silent command. She looked down and noticed that she was in a summer dress, so she thought herself into a pair of green cargo pants and Adidas.

“Spill it,” she said.

“Spill what?” 

“Nice try, William Hawke. What were you like, alive?”

“See, the thing is, I don’t like to remember, Kate.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged, still holding her hand. “I was selfish.”

“You promised to tell me.”

“I know, I know. And I will, because I did promise.” He led her through an area filled with theaters. “I acted here,” he said, indicating a theater on their left. Colorful posters plastered to the wall announced the imminent arrival of a traveling show. “It used to be more prestigious than this.”

“I bet.”

“It looks like things have gotten shoddy. Sad. Look Kate, I don’t like to think about my life,” he whispered and stopped to stare at the front of the theater, one hand in his pocket, while the other let go of her hand. His expression was somber, the look in his eyes distant.

“Everyone has regrets,” Kate said, trying to comfort him. She couldn’t imagine what was so hard about recalling the past. There was nothing that ugly or horrifying about the life a person had lived, was there? Unless they’d been a murderer, a rapist, or something worse. But Will had been none of those things. At least, she would have heard of such infamous deeds had he done them. Right?

“But those people are still alive. They can change things. I’m dead. What’s written is written. Might as well be in stone.”

She felt her forehead crinkle as she began to worry further that he had done something so awful, so horrible, that his regret was justified. “Come on. What did you do? Kill someone? As far as I’m concerned there are only a few things a person can do that are as bad as you’re making it sound. Rape, murder, incest, a few other horrors that I don’t even like to think about.”

His eyes narrowed, and she thought she might have hit on one of them, but he looked away, distracted. “None of that,” he muttered.

“So what was it, what did you do?”

“Let’s go,” he urged, reaching to take her hand and pull her to his side. He slung his arm over her shoulders and they continued on down the side street.

She began to rule things out. “Did you kill someone?”

“Nope.”

“Did you rape someone?”

“No, always consensual,” he said.

“You didn’t do anything to any, um, children, did you?”

“Kate, please? Ugh. That’s disgusting!”

“What? I had to ask,” she explained, hating that she went there too. “Did you try to have an entire race wiped out?”

“No,” he said with a little laugh. “Am I an evil mastermind? No.”

“Did you pillage or plunder any unfortified villages?”

“No, I kept it to heavily fortified villages.”

“See, you’re actually quite nice now that we think of it. I bet those unfortified villages are thanking you as we speak.”

The street they were on was suddenly empty of everyone but them. Will stopped and Kate turned to look up at him. He put his hand against the brick wall that she leaned against. “Your faith in me is quite kind, Kate.”

“Well, yeah, I know,” she said, articulately, suddenly flustered. He’d done a complete one-eighty. His eyes were as deep as shaded pools. She felt she was drowning. He leaned down and kissed her. A train whistle blared in the distance.
Was that my heart?
she wondered, confused, lost in the kiss and on fire.

Will pulled back. “I hope you keep believing in me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He stepped away abruptly, ran his fingers through his hair, suddenly avoiding her gaze. She worried for a moment that he was about to turn into Mr. Hyde. What he said next didn’t exactly dissuade her. “Alright. Here goes. Brace yourself, Kate.” He fidgeted and then plunged on. “I was an awful, awful man. I only cared about myself. My fame was all about
me
. I pretended it was the acting. I pretended it was art. I worshiped myself, the script, the crowds, the cheering. I used the money I made to buy drugs and sex. Not a cent of it went to a good cause. Oh, sure, once in a while I faked really caring about the Red Cross. I sent them some money—a tiny amount, not even enough to buy a box of band-aids. Occasionally I’d donate a bit of blood—but then guess what?”

He waited for a response, his lips pursed into a thin line of contempt.  

“Uh, OK, what?” She took a breath, her heart thundering at the possibility of what this could be. Would he tell her he’d done something unforgivable? What, if anything was unforgivable? How do you hold a grudge against the dead? She assumed it was possible. Had to be. But could she do that for someone she’d only known in death?

“I found out I had HIV. HIV, Kate! How many people did I infect with my generous blood donations? Which—which, I might add, I only did because I didn’t want to give away more of my money. I was such an ass. Such a total deadbeat.” He paced back and forth, gripping his hair in his fists, as though he wanted to snap his own neck or cover his ears and shut out his words.

She sighed.
Oh. That. OK. Yeah. That’s pretty awful.
And, while he wasn’t an evil tyrant, stealing food from babies or oppressing an entire nation, she could see why the guilt haunted him. He saw his motives for what they were. His flaws were as bright as a matador’s cape. And he couldn’t hide from it. Even if the HIV was something he spread before the world was aware of that particular infection, the fact that he did it in lieu of offering financial donations, well, he was the only one who would know that. Instead of helping, his selfish motives might have left a trail of destruction in their wake, as they were wont to do.

Kate grasped for something to say to soothe him. She knew that a person was their own worst judge because they couldn’t hide forever from what was hidden at their core. Lying to oneself could only last so long. 

“You didn’t know, Will.” That was what she finally came up with. It came out weakly, though she wished it had sounded stronger, more convicted.

“I can’t excuse myself for that, Kate.” He stopped pacing and looked up at her. She’d never seen such anguish in his face before. He looked hurt and wounded.

“You judge yourself harsher than others would.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Does it? It only matters that I do.”

“Then don’t. Forgive yourself. Let it go. Move on.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Everything,” she answered through gritted teeth, “
everything
is easier said than done.” It was the worst excuse for inaction. Kate was familiar with it. Her father relied heavily on that line when he didn’t feel like fixing the broken toilet or kitchen sink.

“You think I’m hideous now, don’t you?” His chin struck forward as though challenging her to hit it with her words.

She did a quick search—here, of all places, was where her feelings were always the most clear. No disguises. Just raw and available. She glanced within and saw the bare truth of her feelings for him. “No, my feelings haven’t changed. If anything, they’ve only intensified. I think it’s to your credit that you confessed to me. That took a risk. You didn’t know how I’d respond. And, well, I’d be the hideous monster if I let your mistakes—mistakes you regret—change how I feel for you.”

“Is that what’s stopping you from running away? That you don’t want to be hideous? Or is it—is it something else?”

“I’m still here because . . .” she hesitated, feeling words she might regret halting at the tip of her tongue, “because I love to be with you.” She settled for that.
Good hell,
she thought,
I’m raw here but I still can’t even tell someone I love them in a dream.

He accepted that with a nod. His eyes cut away, then darted back to lock onto her gaze. “And I love to be with you, Kate.”

“Good,” she said, suddenly feeling shy, suddenly wanting to know how his eyes were so blue. It was like a trick of the camera, or would be if the dreams were a TV show, some sort of modern crime drama where every set was designed around one color. But it wasn’t. He stood in front of her and the wall behind him wasn’t blue. His shirt wasn’t blue—no, he was wearing a black shirt and dark blue jeans. She would have thought she dressed him, except that they’d discovered that she wasn’t in control of him in the dreams. He was as anchorless in the dreams as Kate was. He was the one who brought them there, to London. Not her.

It was his turn to be shy, though. Kate believed that she was to understand that his admission that he loved to be with her was a front for what he really meant: that he loved her, which was what her confession was, only, she didn’t say it either. She hid it behind a facade of enjoying his presence. How could she love him? He inhabited a dream world. She couldn’t touch him, not in reality. When they made love, she might as well have been making love to herself. For all intents and purposes, it wasn’t proper sex. Was it?