Touch (21 page)

Emma hated her. But what she felt, for just that moment, wasn’t hatred. Michael moved
to stand on the other side of the boy, one step forward, as if to ward off any blows
his mother might aim at her child. She didn’t appear to notice. Her eyes were fastened
to her son’s silent face.

They rounded, exposing the ring of white around brown irises. The hand that had held
the door rose to cover her open mouth. Her knees gave slowly—or she knelt, it was
hard to say which. “Mark!” Her hand fell away from her mouth.

Emma looked down to Mark. Her hand was not yet numb enough; it hurt.

“Mark, oh, god, Mark. Where have you
been
?” She reached out for her son, her palms up and open. Her son took one hesitant step
forward, but he was anchored by Emma’s hand.

Mark’s mother moved, fully opening the door. “Mark?”

He looked up at Emma. The questions he wanted to ask had deserted him, as had the
rest of his words. Emma swallowed. “Mark,” she said quietly. “Should we go in?”

“Mark?” his mother whispered. She lowered her hands.

“Mom?” A voice called down from the top of the stairs. “Who is it?”

“It’s Mark!”

“Mom,” the voice said, both gently and with apprehension, “it can’t be Mark.” It was
an older boy’s voice. Not a teenager’s, but not far off. Emma looked up to see Mark’s
brother descend the stairs. He turned and hollered back up. “It’s just a neighbor!”
before he caught sight of the door.

He froze, his eyes widening just as his mother’s had. His expression was just as hard
to look at. “Mark!” Unlike his mother, he noticed Emma, Michael, and Eric.

He hesitated, the way a child would, which made Emma revise his age downward.

“Hi, Phillip,” Mark said, his eyes just as wide as his brother’s. He lost years—and
he looked young for his age to begin with—as he smiled. He had a heartbreakingly open
smile.

Phillip looked at Emma. “Let go of his hand,” he told her. “He doesn’t like to be
touched.”

“It’s okay now,” Mark said quietly. “It doesn’t feel bad anymore.”

“Mom,” Phillip said, in a quiet voice, never taking his eyes off his brother. “You’re
freezing the house. If we’re going to let them in, let them in and close the door.”

Mark’s mother was still on her knees, but the sound of her older son brought back
the rest of the world. She rose—unsteadily—and nodded. “Come in,” she said, as if
seeing Emma, Michael, and Eric for the first time. “It doesn’t hurt when she holds
your hand?” she asked her son.

Her dead son.

“Not anymore.”

Phillip’s surprise at seeing his brother shifted, as if he could read the truth that
no one had yet put into words in his brother’s expression. “Why?” he asked.

“I’m dead,” Mark replied, in a tone that suggested his state was self-evident.

Emma was watching Mark’s mother, although it was hard to look away from Phillip. She
saw the moment the woman’s expression shattered, but it had been so fragile to begin
with. Eyes that were circled and dark seemed to sink into the hollows made by sharp
cheekbones and stretched skin; tears added reflected light to her face—the only light
that touched it. This was the face of a murderer, and Emma knew she would never forget
it.

This was what her father had been trying to tell her.

Phillip stepped between Mark and his mother—or between Emma and his mother. Emma wasn’t
certain which. What she knew was that Phillip was afraid. Afraid and determined.

“You’re dead?” he demanded. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” He looked at Emma. “Emma heard me. Emma promised she would bring me home. Emma,”
he added, before she could stop him, “is a Necromancer.”

* * *

She felt like one as she stood, her arm numb, Mark by her side. His brother was staring,
his eyes wide and unblinking; his mother, half-hidden by her older son, was—was weeping.

Emma had wanted monsters. Monsters could kill their own children. And this woman
had
—but if she was a monster, monsters were broken, shattered, pathetic things that were
to be pitied. Emma did not want to pity a murderer. She’d been so angry, listening
to Mark. She could stir the ashes of that anger now, but it provided no warmth and
no heat.

She couldn’t accuse the woman of killing her own son—not when her other son stood
between them. Because then he’d know. It couldn’t break Mark’s mother any more than
she was already broken; it could injure Phillip in a way that simple cold couldn’t.

Why had she even come here?

Because she’d promised.

Emma stepped into the hall, and Mark followed because he was attached. He didn’t seem
to be aware of her—not the way Phillip was. Someone closed the door; she thought it
must be Eric. Her dog stayed more or less near her legs; he was generally well behaved
in other people’s houses. Something about Emma stopped him from sniffing around strange
legs and hands, looking for food.

Phillip glanced at the stairs, and Emma remembered that Mark had had two siblings,
both of whom were, in his opinion, normal. Whatever that meant. “Mom.”

When his mother failed to answer, Phillip briefly closed his eyes.

Mark’s hand tightened in Emma’s. “Why is she crying?” he asked his brother.

“She’s been crying on and off since the funeral.” He spoke in a quiet, matter-of-fact
way, as if his mother weren’t present. “She went out to look for you—” He inhaled,
held his breath, and smoothed the worry off his face, which made him look older. “Do
you want to see your room?”

Mark shrugged. “Not really. Did you change it?”

“No. It’s the same mess it always was.” He paused and then added, “I beat your high
score, though.”

Mark yanked his hand free of Emma’s and ran up the stairs. He ran through his brother,
whose eyes were widening.

Emma tried to massage feeling back into her hand.

“Where did he go?”

“If I had to guess, he went to his room to look at the high score list. What game?”

“Tetris. It’s ancient, but he liked it.”

“You didn’t beat his high score.”

Phillip shook his head. “It’s not possible. He’s a monster Tetris player. It’s like
he’s hooked directly into the machine. I tried, though. I can’t see him, now.”

“No.”

“Will my sister—”

“No. Unless he comes back downstairs and takes my hand, she won’t see him either.”

Phillip swallowed. He slid an arm beneath his mother’s arms and guided her toward
the living room doors. “Can you—”

Emma crossed the hall and opened one of the two glass doors that led to the living
room, and Phillip walked his mother in.

* * *

Michael was staring at his feet, or at the floor beneath them, when Emma turned. Eric
passed them both, and offered Phillip the help that Emma, hands numb, couldn’t. She
couldn’t hear what Eric said to the boy; she could hear the broken syllables of Phillip’s
response, but not clearly enough to make sense of them.

“I don’t understand,” Michael said.

“I don’t understand, either.”

“She left him to die,” he continued, as if Emma hadn’t spoken. “She must have
wanted
to leave him.” Before Emma could answer—and it would have taken a while, because
she had no words—he said, “Why is she crying?”

Emma was surprised to find her throat tightening. Without thought, she reached out
for the other dead person in the hall. Michael didn’t even blink when her father coalesced
at her side.

“I’m not Mark’s mother,” her father said, although to Michael this was self-evident,
“but if I had to guess, I would say she made a mistake.”

“But Mark
died
.”

“Yes. Some mistakes can’t be undone. I don’t know why she took him to the ravine.
I don’t know why she left him there and told him to wait. I don’t know if she meant
to abandon him to the cold.”

“But she
did
.”

Brendan Hall nodded. “Yes. Maybe she thought it would make her happy. Maybe she was
having the very worst day of her life and she couldn’t deal with any more stress.
Maybe she meant it to be an hour or two. I don’t know, Michael.”

“But she’s crying. And she—”

“She was happy to see him.”

Michael swallowed but didn’t deny it. “I thought she would be afraid. I thought she
would scream or hide or try to lie—”

“You thought she would be like the guilty criminals on TV.”

He nodded, blinking rapidly. “Why did she ask him to come in? She knows he’s dead.
She
knows
. I don’t understand.”

“No. People—even people we know well—are sometimes impossible to understand or predict.
I don’t think Mark’s mother has accepted Mark’s death.”

“But she
caused it
!”

“Yes. And sometimes the mistakes we make ourselves are the hardest for us to face
and accept. I know Emma felt Mark’s mother got away with murder.”

“She did,” Michael replied, voice low.

“Did she?” He nodded toward the living room. “We should go in. Mark’s coming back.”

“What was he doing?” Emma asked.

“Playing a game.”

“A game?”

“I think he’s making certain that Phillip will never be able to beat his high score,”
her father replied, with just the touch of a rueful smile. “He’s only eight, Em.”

* * *

“My sister’s not sleeping,” Mark said, as he drifted through the floor. He’d automatically
taken the stairs on the way up.

“What is she doing?” Emma asked, glancing up those stairs; if his sister joined them,
she couldn’t do it the way Mark just had.

“She was watching me play Tetris.”

“She can’t see you.” But Emma’s stomach felt like it dropped two feet. His sister
couldn’t see Mark, no. But she could see the computer.

“I think she’s coming downstairs,” Mark added, in a much smaller voice.

And she was. She was walking, wide-eyed, her arms level with the banister. She stopped
at the top of the stairs and looked down to see two strange teenagers—and a rottweiler—in
her hall.

“What’s her name?” Emma asked.

“Susan. She doesn’t like to be called Sue,” he added. “I don’t know why people do
it.”

“Your brother is not going to be happy.”

Mark looked down. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t tell him it wasn’t his fault. “It doesn’t matter. After tonight, she won’t
be able to see you again, and she might want to say something.”

“What?”

“Good-bye.”

“Oh.” He hesitated for a moment as Emma looked up the stairs at the girl who stood
by the banister.

“Hello, Susan. Your mother and Phillip are in the living room. My name’s Emma and
I’m a—a—” She hesitated as Mark held out his hand. Without a pause, she took it and
watched as the girl’s eyes widened.

“Mark?”

Mark said, “Hi, Susan.” He looked very guilty.

“You
were
playing Tetris!”

“Phillip said he’d beat my high score.”

Susan snorted. “Phillip is such a liar.” She looked older than Mark, although she
wasn’t much taller. She also didn’t appear to be surprised. “Has Mom seen you?”

Mark nodded.

“She’s been a mess since you died.” Susan then added, “Why is that girl holding your
hand?”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s not what I asked.” She walked with much more confidence down the stairs. “Who
are you?”

“Emma.”

“I heard that part. Why do you have that dog?”

Emma blinked. “He needed to go for a walk. He doesn’t bite people, and he doesn’t
usually destroy furniture.” Petal headed obligingly toward Susan. “She doesn’t have
any food, Petal.”

“Petal?”

“His name.”

“That’s a stupid name for a big dog.” Stupidly named or not, Susan hesitantly patted
his head. “But who
are
you?”

“Emma’s a Necromancer,” Mark replied. “Was Mom really mad at me?”

“At you? God, no. But she’s been mad or sad about everything. Tell her you’re okay,”
Susan added. It was delivered as if it were a royal command and Susan were the Queen.

“I’m dead.”

“I
know
that.” Susan reached out to take Mark’s other hand. The fact that Mark didn’t like
to be touched—at least when alive—was something she’d forgotten. Or, given her personality,
something she’d ignored.

Mark didn’t seem to be surprised or upset, but Susan wasn’t thrilled when her hand
passed through his. “Why are you holding
her
hand?”

“Because you can’t see me if I don’t.”

“Oh. Well, that’s okay then.” She gave Emma another look and then headed toward the
closed doors of the living room. “Are you coming, or what?”

* * *

Mark’s mother’s name was Leslie. She was sitting in the corner of a long, leather
couch, a drink in her shaking hands. Emma eyed its contents with some suspicion. Susan
eyed its contents with loathing, which confirmed Emma’s suspicion; the girl did not,
however, march over to her mother and take the drink away.

“Susan, why are you awake?” It was Phillip who asked.

“Mark woke me up,” she replied, casually tossing her younger brother to the figurative
wolves.

He knew it, too, but accepted it. “. . . I was playing Tetris,” he mumbled.

“Yes, because
someone
told him he’d beaten the high score,” Susan added, punting fault back into Phillip’s
corner.

Both Emma and Michael were only children. Sibling interactions had always been a bit
mystifying, if sometimes viewed with envy.

“Have you tried to touch him?” Susan asked her brother. “Look.” She shoved her hand
through Mark’s chest, and then waved her arm around. Mark was looking down at her
hand, his eyes slightly rounded.

“That’s pretty cool,” he told his sister.

“Yeah. Cool and creepy.”

“Susan likes horror,” Mark told the room.

Phillip, far from looking horrified, now looked embarrassed. Emma wasn’t certain on
whose behalf, but suspected it was theirs: Emma’s, Eric’s, and Michael’s. “She’s always
like this,” he said.

Emma thought she understood why as she turned to face Mark’s mother. Her eyes were
still red, her lips swollen; she had crumpled tissues in her left hand.