Fortune (15 page)

C
hance and Skye fell into a regular rhythm of living. They traveled together as brother and sister, going from place to place, stopping wherever Chance could find work, living and sleeping wherever they could afford—usually in cheap boardinghouses or even cheaper by-the-week motels.

Most of the places they lived scared Skye. They were dirty. They smelled. The people who lived around them looked like the kind of people her mother had always told her to stay away from. Sometimes, while Chance worked and she was home alone, she would huddle under her blankets and listen to the sounds of the building—the scurry of creatures in the walls, the cries of unattended infants, the deep, frightening voices of the men who came and went at all hours of the day and night.

Those times it seemed a million years instead of a few short months since she had felt safe, since she had been with her mother and protected. It seemed longer ago still that she had stood up bravely to Len and his gang at the carnival, taunting them. She had been so cocky. So confident and unafraid.

Now she was scared of everything.

But of nothing so much as losing Chance.

Skye drew the worn, stale-smelling blanket to her chin. It was rough and scratchy, but it kept her warm. It comforted. And after some of the places she had slept in the last couple of months, she appreciated both of those things more than she had ever imagined she could.

She moved her gaze around the shabby motel room, avoiding the dim corners, not wanting to speculate what might be lurking in there. Chance had found temporary work—about a week's worth, the man had said—with a mason. For the past two days, he had left at dawn, and returned home at dark with a bag of take-out hamburgers and French fries. Both days he had been too exhausted to do more than eat, shower and fall into bed.

When he left in the morning, he ordered her to stay inside with the door locked. She was not to answer the door for anyone or to venture out. Chance feared her being picked up by the police or Social Services. After all, kids were supposed to be in school during the day, and she would stick out like a sore thumb on these small-town streets. He worried, too, about drug dealers or pimps getting their hands on her, he worried about her being abducted.

She shuddered. Those things terrified her, too, but not nearly so much as the fear that one day Chance wouldn't come home for her. That he, like her mom, would decide that life would be easier without her.

Tears stung Skye's eyes; they choked her. Her mother had promised she would never leave her. She had said she loved her more than anything. Her mother had called Skye her whole life. But she had left her alone. She had left her behind.

Skye drew her knees to her chest and pressed her face against them, the pain almost unbearable. She missed her mom. She wanted her to come back. She wanted to be able to undo whatever she had done that had caused her mother to stop loving her.

She tried to believe what Chance had told her, tried to believe that her mother had left because she had been afraid for her daughter's safety. And sometimes, on a good day, when she managed to forget for a time, she almost did believe it.

But most days she figured her mom had just decided to leave her behind. The way she had left so many places and jobs behind.

Without a backward glance.

Skye's throat filled with tears and her chest hurt, hurt so bad she could hardly breathe. She tightened her arms around her drawn-up knees and rocked back and forth, fighting the tears, not wanting to cry. Not wanting to hurt anymore.

She was sick of both. And of being alone. Of being scared all the time.

But she couldn't seem to stop, no matter how much she wanted to.

From beyond the thin wall behind her bed came the sound of arguing. She jumped as she heard a man's shouted curses and a crash, then a woman's cry of pain. There came more swearing, more sounds of blows and cries of pain. And then silence, deathly white silence.

Skye covered her ears with her hands. She wanted to go home. She wanted her mom to put her arms around her and tell her everything was going to be all right, that it had all been a bad dream. She wanted her mom to love her again.

Skye's tears came then, and she cried, cried until she was dry, until she hadn't the strength to even whimper. She fell back against the pillows and gazed numbly up at the cracked and pitted ceiling. She had no home. She had no mother, not anymore. There were no loving arms to hold her, no soft comforting voice telling her everything was going to be all right.

Chance was all she had. She had to hold on to him; she had to make him love her the way her mother had not, so much he would never leave her behind.

She would, she promised herself. Somehow, she would.

T
rue to her promise to herself, Skye worked on making certain Chance wouldn't leave her. She kept their room perfectly clean. She drew pictures and made cards for him. When he got home at night she was happy instead of sad. She let him watch what he wanted on TV. She didn't complain, make demands or pester him.

She hadn't even reminded him that today was her birthday.

He had remembered, anyway. That morning, before he had left for work, he had wished her happy birthday and promised to be home early today with a surprise.

Skye climbed out of the bathtub, dried off, then dressed, slipping into her best-fitting, least ragged pair of blue jeans and her newest sweater. She smiled. He had remembered. That must mean he was starting to like having her around, it must.

Maybe it even meant he was starting to love her.

Skye gazed at herself in the cloudy mirror, pushing away the thoughts of her mother and of birthdays past that pressed at her. Pushing away memories of presents and cake and of being made to feel like a princess. Those memories only made her sad, and she didn't want to be sad. Not today.

Maybe not ever again. And especially not around Chance. She forced a bright smile. She hardly ever cried anymore, and never when he was around. And she always tried her hardest not to cling.

That was the hardest part, because she was still afraid. Sometimes she woke up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, drenched with sweat, certain that she was alone, that Chance had run away and left her behind.

She didn't confide her fears in him, she hadn't told him about the nightmares she'd been having. She didn't want him to know. So, when she awakened that way, she would lie as still and as quiet as she could, tuning into the darkness and listening for his breathing. And when she finally heard it, she would know that everything was okay.

And the nights she couldn't hear it, she lay awake, terrified, wondering what she should do, lay awake until morning or until exhaustion took her against her will.

Skye began combing her wet hair. Badly in need of a cut, it was snarled and took several minutes to completely comb through. Finally done, she braided it into a single braid down her back and fastened it with a rubber band.

A moment later, she heard Chance call her name. Skye flew out of the bathroom and out to meet him, stopping a moment before she threw her arms around his waist. She beamed up at him instead. “You made it home early. Just like you said.”

“Of course I did. After all, it's a special day.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a wrapped package. “Happy birthday, Skye.”

“Oh, Chance!” She hugged him hard. “Thank you, thank you!”

He laughed and freed himself. “Hey, not so fast. You haven't even opened it yet. And I warn you, it isn't much.”

“It doesn't matter.” She snatched the present, wrapped in last Sunday's funny papers, and held it to her chest. “I can't believe you got me something. I can't believe you remembered today was my birthday.”

He shook his head. “What kind of buddy would I be if I forgot your birthday or didn't get you a present? Well, aren't you going to open it?”

She laughed and darted across to the bed, then plopped onto it. She should savor opening it, she knew. Take her time. Instead, she tore the paper away greedily, squealing with delight when she saw what was underneath—a box of pastels.

“The lady said they're really good ones,” Chance murmured. “Professional quality.”

Tears pricked Skye's eyes, and she reverently lifted the lid off the box. Setting it aside, she trailed her finger over the row of neatly wrapped square sticks.

“They're beautiful,” she said, her voice thick. “I've always wanted some of these. Mom always…she always said I was too young.”

“Not anymore. Hey, you're thirteen now.” He sat beside her. “Try one.”

She selected a pink, a delicious rose hue, and rubbed the tip along the back of her hand. It was soft, velvety and vibrant. A world different than the cheap ones she usually worked with, ones that were hard and gritty, their color chalky and dull.

She lifted her gaze to Chance's, a tear spilling over and rolling down her cheek. “Thank you. I love them.”

He caught the tear with his thumb and shook his head. “Don't go getting mushy on me. Remember your reputation, you're a tough-as-nails tomboy. Besides, we've got a party to go to.”

“A party?” She sat up straighter, excited. “Whose party? Where?”

“Yours, dope. And you'll know where when we get there.” He ruffled her hair, then caught her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Come on.”

First he took her to the Pizza Hut nearby and told her to order whatever she wanted. She chose the biggest pizza on the menu, loaded with all her favorite toppings. When they had stuffed themselves, they walked down the block to the arcade. She had eyed it dozens of times, but they'd never had the money to blow on video games and pinball.

Chance found the money tonight. They played every game, from Pac Man and Asteroids to air hockey and Foosball.

Finally, exhausted, they walked back to the motel. There, Chance had one more surprise for her. A Hostess Ho-Ho that he covered with thirteen candles. It looked like a torch when they were all lit.

Skye made a wish and blew them all out. Chance didn't ask her what she had wished for, though she suspected he knew.

She wanted what she used to have. She wanted her mother to love her.

Thinking of her mother, tears flooded her eyes. She looked away, feeling like an ungrateful brat. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“This.” She sniffled, then giggled, though the sound broke on a sob. “I don't know why I'm crying, this has been the best night of my life.”

“I'm glad you liked it, kid. I know it's been…” He cleared his throat. “I wanted you to have a good birthday.”

“I did, Chance.” She rested her head against his shoulder. “I really did.”

“So how does it feel to be a big thirteen-year-old now?”

She thought about it for a moment. So much had happened in the past months, she didn't know if she was different, older and more mature, or if it was just her life, not her, that had changed.

Finally, she shook her head. “I don't think I'm any different. Just the same old Skye.”

He chuckled. “Good. 'Cause I think the same old Skye is kind of nice.”

She rested her head on his shoulder, happy and tired and full. She yawned. “Chance?”

“Hmm?”

“You're the best friend I ever had.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he bent and planted a light kiss on the top of her head. “Thanks, kid. That means a lot to me.”

Skye didn't realize until much later, as she lay awake, unable to sleep for her jumbled thoughts, that he hadn't told her she was his best friend. In fact, that he hadn't said he liked her at all.

C
laire stood atop the Fort Pitt Bridge, the lights of Pittsburgh in the distance, the water of the Ohio River below.

She gazed at the dark, swirling water, despondent. Thirteen years ago today she had held her baby daughter in her arms for the first time. She had gazed at the pink-and-white bundle, her tiny Grace, and had known real love for the first time.

That day, that moment, had been the happiest of her life.

And this was the most bleak.

Claire lifted her face to the midnight sky, cold, black and starless. The wind caught her hair, whipping it around her head; it tore at her thin coat. Her face and hands burned from the cold, she ached with fatigue.

A fitting night to die, she thought. Cold and ugly and black. Even the stars had not come out to say goodbye.

Tears choked her. Claire breathed deeply, forcing air into her lungs, breathing an effort. Thirteen years ago she had made a promise to her baby daughter, she had promised to cherish and protect her, to shield her from harm. Motherhood had been the only thing she had done right; Grace had been the only thing worth living for.

But even that, she hadn't done right. She hadn't protected her daughter. She hadn't loved her enough. As usual, she had made one mistake after another. She had failed.

And now her daughter was lost.

A sob rose to Claire's throat, though she didn't release it. No one could hear her, there was no reason not to cry. But she found herself pathetic enough without her tears; in a way, holding back her grief was the only thing she had left to hold on to.

That and the gems. Claire clutched the pouch to her chest, against her thundering heart, thinking of the past, desperate months. She had gone from one small town to another, showing Skye's picture, asking anyone and everyone if they had seen her daughter. If they had seen Chance.

Claire believed they might be together, but they could be anywhere. Or, they could be nowhere.

For no one had seen them. In the three and a half months she had been searching, she'd had not one lead. Not one glimmer of hope. It was as if Skye and Chance had fallen off the face of the earth.

She knew Pierce didn't have her because she had called Dorothy, who, of course, thought that mother and daughter were still together. Pierce had made no more progress than she. For that, at least, she could be grateful.

But she wasn't. Because now she lived with another, worse fear—that her baby, her sweet Skye, was dead.

Pain took Claire's breath. Though she struggled with the fear, working to deny it, what could she think? Her visions had stopped. Her nightmares. The monstrous bird no longer stalked her or her daughter; she no longer heard her daughter's cries for help in her head.

She saw only blackness now. A yawning dark pit of nothingness.

Claire stepped up to the guardrail, eyeing the catwalk on the other side. She curved her fingers around the railing, readying herself. She would never find her daughter. She had accepted that. She had no money, no way to finance a search.

She couldn't go on living without searching. She couldn't go on without hope.

Claire gazed down at the water again, her vision blurring. Death would be sweet. Perhaps in death, she could continue her search. Perhaps as spirit she could find her daughter and watch over her. Protect and cherish her as she had promised all those years ago.

Or perhaps, like now, there would be nothing. Just the end. Just a cold, black nothing.

Claire took the pouch from around her neck and opened it. She had allowed the gems, the premonitions and feelings she'd had while holding them, to keep her going for months now. Skye needed the gems, she had told herself. The gems would someday play a part in saving her daughter's life.

And if the jewels were to help Skye, she and Skye would be together again. She had grasped on to that hope like a lifeline, clutching at it until her heart had been numb.

The time had come to let go.

Claire climbed over the guardrail and onto the narrow ledge beyond. She curved an arm around the railing for support and dipped her hand into the pouch. She planned to drop the stones, one by one, into the water. And when they were gone, she would follow.

She curled her fingers into the stones. As they had felt all those years ago, they were both hot and cold against her fingers, smooth and sharp, vibrating with a kind of pure energy.

A hysterical laugh bubbled to her lips. Ironic, those visions she'd had of icy water and of someone being sucked under for the final time—that someone had been her, all along she had been previewing her own death.

She closed her eyes and imagined it—the cold, the black, her lungs burning. Her desperate, instinctive fight to save herself.

Then, finally, the sweet oblivion.

Happy birthday, Grace. I love you.

Forgive me.

She scooped up the stones, making a fist around them. She held them out over the water. As she began to open her hand an image came upon her, so suddenly and vividly it took her breath.

She saw a man. And a young boy. Unspeakable horrors.
Claire's knees buckled. She crumpled, grabbing on to the concrete support, hanging on for dear life.
Trees were all around. She sensed rather than saw a place, dark and fecund…cramped. She heard a cry of pain. A plea, helpless and terrified, for help.

Hurry. She had to hurry. His time was running out.

The visions moved through her head, hammering at her, one after another. With the images came pain, real and gut-wrenching, ripping her wide, leaving her panting.

And then, as suddenly as they had come upon her, they were gone. She opened her eyes, realizing she was crying, her cheek pressed to the metal railing, her fist still closed around the gems.

She drew a ragged breath. This was another's child. One she recognized. She had seen his sweet face—on TV and the front page of the
Post-Gazette,
on flyers taped in storefront windows and stapled to trees and telephone poles.

And he was alive. For now.

Claire dragged herself to her feet. He needed her.

It would be enough.