Transcendent (22 page)

I
want
to be special.

“You're crying,” Abby said, the prayer, my own shocking words, dissolving around me like the final notes of a beautiful, tragic song.

I
was
crying, slow, heavy tears dripping onto Abby's cheeks below. I had stood up at some point, too, without realizing, and was standing directly over her now, my hands attached more firmly to the sides of her face.

“I'm sorry,” I said, my voice thick and husky.

“Don't be. Your tears feel nice.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, and this time I pulled my hands back for real. I had done all that I could do—and I still had failed.

But if I had failed, Iris had failed, too. Iris had failed in the moment I needed her most.

She had come to my mom—so why not me? Why not come to me?

You're so important, so valuable to us. Keeping you and the child safe is all that matters now.

That was what Iris had said to my mom, that night at the restaurant. But if we were so important, so valuable, why wasn't she there with me now? She had told my mom that we'd know—we'd know the reason for all of this eventually, someday.
The time will come
, she'd said.
You'll know when it does.
If this wasn't the time—right here, right now—what other time could there possibly be? The idea
of a worse time, a darker time, was inconceivable.

“I need to go now,” I said quietly, already backing away.

“When will you come again?”

“I—I don't know,” I stuttered, my hand clenched around the doorknob. “I'm not sure yet.”

“I guess there are a lot of other kids like me you have to visit, too, huh?”

I wouldn't be visiting other kids like Abby—there was no point. But I couldn't say that, not to her.

“Bye, Abby.” I pushed the door open, relieved that I was mere inches from my escape. “It was so great to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you, too,” she said, and I glanced back at her one last time, the image of this precious little girl searing into the deepest corners of my mind.

I was burned now, too, even if my mark was invisible from the surface.

I was burned from the inside out.

I
DIDN'T SAY
good-bye to Sam or Janelle on my way out of the apartment—I didn't even acknowledge Zane or Zoey. Instead I steamrolled right through the living room and down the two flights of stairs to the front entrance, where I finally crumpled on the stoop, wheezing and gasping to fill my lungs.

The front door flew open.

“What's wrong?” Zoey asked. She crouched on the step in front of me, forcing me to meet her eyes. “What did she say to you?”

“She thanked me,” I said, swallowing a sob. “She was glad I came.”

“So then . . . why are you crying?” Zoey frowned.

“Because,” I sputtered, clawing through the air. “Because it's a lie. I didn't actually
do
anything. She has hope now, but it's all wrong. She shouldn't, not because of me.”

“Let's get off this stoop,” Zane said, gripping my
shoulders. He pulled me to my feet, my legs trembling as I leaned against him.

Before I even realized what was happening, Zane had settled me into a cab, squeezed between the two of them on the backseat. I kept my eyes shut for the whole ride, opening them only when we stopped in front of a gray and battered-looking old motel.

I didn't have nearly enough cash to cover a night there, and Zane shouldn't be paying for it either—but I didn't say that. I didn't stop him. He practically emptied out the vending machine, too, on our way to the room, buying chips and pretzels and candies for dinner. I wasn't hungry, though I hadn't eaten at all since our Chinese feast the night before. Zane insisted I eat something, shoving a king-sized Butterfinger into my hands.

Our room smelled sour and damp, the walls, the blankets, the towels all so faded and tired looking, saturated with too many sad lives. I quickly inhaled the Butterfinger, and then threw my jacket on the first bed and headed straight for the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I stripped off my filthy clothes and turned the shower on, blasting myself with steaming hot water. I hadn't showered since I'd left home, three days before. Had it only been three days? Mikki, the shelter, Zoey and Zane and Uncle Anthony, Abby . . . I washed all of that off me, scrubbing at my skin until it was pink and raw.

I climbed back into my dirty clothes and stared at myself in the mirror—at my tired, red-rimmed eyes and knotted, dripping hair. I looked pale and sickly and utterly helpless. I was no one's salvation, not even my own. I recognized now for the first time the irony of the shirt I'd been wearing all along—an old yoga T-shirt that had
Namaste
in gold, sparkling letters. Namaste, a Hindu greeting.
I bow to the divine in you.
The divine in all of us.

Where was my divinity now?

I opened the bathroom door and climbed into bed next to Zoey, who was already sound asleep, a pile of empty candy wrappers scattered all around her. Zane, though, was sitting awake and upright on the bed next to us. Even without glancing over, I could feel his sharp eyes cutting through me, all the questions that he wanted to ask about what had happened in Abby's bedroom. I ignored him, yanking the scratchy motel comforter over my head. I should call my parents—the motel room phone was right next to me, after all—but I couldn't, even though I knew they were probably panicking. I'd made no guarantees about when I'd call next. Soon. I would call soon.

I didn't know what I would do in the morning, where we would go next or if there would still even be a
we
at all—but then, I hadn't known what the next day would bring since I'd first climbed down the fire escape and away from home. Three days, and I wasn't any closer to figuring
out a way to improve my messy, upside-down life.

I had tried to prove to Abby that I was worthlessly human, not a shred of anything bigger or better. Yet she had still believed, as much as or maybe even more than ever.

What else could I do?

Iris
, I prayed again, squeezing my palms together against my chest, just above my racing heart.
Iris, please.

Help me.

•   •   •

I woke up the next morning to Zoey's frantic tugging, her crouched knees bumping into me as she grabbed at my shoulders, shaking me hard against the pillow.

“It worked, Iris! It worked! It really, really worked!” she shouted, her words giving way to a burst of squealing, ear-splitting laughter.

“What are you talking about, Zoey?” I asked, rubbing at my dazed, sleep-heavy eyes. I tried to sit up despite her jittery hands bumping me around, but it required too much energy that I didn't have to spare.

“Abby! It worked!”

This time, the words jolted me upright. The room around me was suddenly perfectly crisp, too crisp, the edges and the colors sharp and fierce and penetrating.

“What do you mean ‘it worked'?”

“It worked! You fixed Abby!” She sat back, letting go
as she threw herself against the pillows next to me, panting for air. “I mean,” she said, her breathing slower now, steadier, “not completely. Not yet. She's still blind, and she still has scars. But her parents called Zane this morning and said that she's out of bed for the first time since it happened. She asked her mom if she could walk her all around the apartment so she could start finding things and doing things on her own. And it's because of
you
, Iris. Don't you see? It's all because of
you
. I knew that you were special. I just knew it!”

Her words were a chaotic swirl in my mind, nothing but nonsense. Of course I hadn't done anything. Of course I hadn't made Abby better.

She was improving because she
believed
. She believed that I'd made a difference—and so I had made a difference, indirectly at least. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

I had given her hope, and somehow, that hope had its own kind of power.

Maybe hope isn't always about the perfect ending. Hope is making the journey easier.

My mom had written those words in her book; the full line came to me now in a flash. Mina's words. Words that hadn't jumped out when I first read her story, though they'd obviously climbed deep inside my mind and latched on tight.

But just because I'd given Abby the hope she needed
to get out of bed—to slowly, one day at a time, move on with her life—it didn't mean that I'd worked a miracle. It could have been anyone who'd walked into that room and placed their palms against her burned face.

No.

It couldn't have been just anyone, I realized. Because there was no one else who could have given Abby that sense of unlimited possibility—the irrational but persuasive belief that miracles could actually happen.

I
had happened, after all. It was just like Mikki had said to me, when I'd asked her about miracles. If there was one miracle, there could be more.

And I—I was the most likely source.

The weight and the gravity of it all, it was too much; it changed everything. It made every doubt and every hesitation I'd held since Kyle Bennett had knocked on our door simultaneously less true and truer at the same time. I wasn't divine, but that didn't mean I was powerless.

On the contrary, I had too much power, whether I wanted it or not.

Zoey reached out and grabbed my hand, curling her fingers tightly around mine. “What are you thinking about, Iris? Say something.”

Her big round eyes were glossy, stains of tears still running down her cheeks. Zane was right there, too, perched behind her on the side of the bed. His gaze was drilling
into me, and I stared back, unblinking. I tried to read his thoughts, but whatever he was feeling now was too well masked.

I sighed, turning back to Zoey. “I'm thinking . . . I'm thinking that she's only better, sweetie, because I gave her hope. She believed I could make her feel better, so this morning . . . she
felt
better. I don't think that I actually healed her—I
know
that I didn't—not in any medical sense. I just gave her the courage she needed to get out of bed. To start accepting the fact that her life will always be different—but she's
alive
. Good things can and will still happen.”

“But you still did that,” Zoey said, her eyes watching me in a way that seemed frighteningly like
awe
. “So you still fixed her in a way. Right?”

“Well . . .” I trailed off as I shifted in the bed, kicking the twisted sheets and comforter off my legs. I was suddenly way too hot to be covered in blankets, sweat beading along the back of my neck. “I guess I helped her a little bit, yeah,” I admitted, the heat rising to my cheeks. I tilted my head and stared up at the chipped white ceiling, the brownish-yellow flowering stains that someone had unsuccessfully tried to cover with a thin coat of new paint. “But that doesn't mean that I'm really special, Zoey; you have to understand that. Abby just
believes
that I am, and that's
why my being there worked at all. That's why I was able to cheer her up a little.”

“But even if that's the reason,” Zane interrupted, jerking my eyes back to his scarred, beautiful face, “does it matter? You being there was better than you not being there. So what about all the other victims like Abby? All the other kids? If they believed in you, too, and you visited them, touched their wounds or whatever the hell it takes to make them feel even just a little bit cured . . . shouldn't you do it? Don't you owe that?”

“Owe?”
The word burned its way up my throat. “Owe
who
? Why do I owe anything to anyone?” I felt selfish saying it, but I was enraged by Zane's idea—this idea that everyone's happiness was my responsibility somehow. My
duty
, as Kyle Bennett had called it. Visiting these kids would be deceitful. I'd make them temporarily happier, maybe, but what next? When their burns didn't fade, their missing limbs didn't grow back, their eyes still couldn't see . . .

“Yeah,
owe
,” Zane said. “If you're the only one who can make people feel that kind of crazy hope, don't you think you should at least try?”

“That's not fair,” I snapped. “You make it sound so simple.”

“So tell me, then . . . if your parents want to hide you away somewhere safe, probably put you up in some fancy
hotel a hundred times nicer than this shithole, why are you running? Why didn't you just let them protect you from the nasty outside world? Why are you
here
?”

“Stop it,” I said, fighting hard to keep my voice steady. “Just
stop
. I didn't ask for any of this.”

“Yeah, well, neither did Brinley. Neither did Abby. A lot of people have to deal with a life filled with crap that they didn't ask for. You think I love what I got? Do you, Iris?”

Zane was right—I knew that he was, even if I wasn't ready to admit it out loud. I'd had everything up until now, my entire life one long string of blessings. But now—now I had more than everything. More than any one person could ask for.

I had so much that it terrified me.

“I don't think I'm strong enough to be this person—this person that people need me to be,” I whispered. “I want to be her, I really do. I realized that yesterday with Abby, that I
want
to help. I want to make people better, even if it's just deep down, not on the surface. But I don't know if I can. I don't know why
me
.”

Zane stood, pacing around the edge of the bed. “Iris. If you weren't asking
why me
, that would be even crazier. I mean, seriously, think about it: some people could have totally abused this kind of power. And you wouldn't. You would never do that.”

I shook my head, blinking back tears.

Zane stopped midstep and turned back to face me.

“So maybe . . . maybe that's why you.”

•   •   •

Sam and Janelle had passed on a phone number to Zane.

A phone number for Angelica Byrne, the leader of a network of families who had been at Disney on August twenty-fourth. Families who had lost one or more of their members, and families who had made it through alive, but with scars on the outside, the inside—or, in most cases, both.

Disney's Children, it was called. It was just one of a handful of national organizations, according to Sam and Janelle, but this group in particular had a strong presence across several children's hospitals in the New York City area.

“What do they expect me to do with it?” I asked. I knew the answer, though. Of course I did.

Zane raised his eyebrows and gave me an incredulous-looking smirk.

I could hear Zoey singing from the bathroom, where she was taking a bath overflowing with a bottle of bubbles that Zane had bought at the front desk. She sounded so happy. Too happy, given the cause. The singing was probably at least somewhat due to the fact that Zane had agreed
school was too far to bother trying for this morning, but I had a sinking feeling that it was more about Abigail. More about me.