Transcendent (30 page)

“Why?” I asked. It took every shred of willpower to push out this one word.

“I don't know,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I don't know. He's not an evil man, though I know that's probably impossible for you to believe, and I can't expect you to take my word for it. There's a lot of good about him. There is. He loves his family more than anything, always took care of us. He'd work double shifts, getting home from one job at ten o'clock at night and up at three in the morning for the next. And he didn't complain much—I could tell that he was tired and overworked. Frustrated. Angry that he did so much and got so little. No matter how many hours he worked, he could still never do all the things for our family that he wanted. He couldn't buy us new clothes or take us out to nice dinners. He could never afford trips or vacations. We'd never even left the state. He certainly could never have afforded . . .
Disney
.”

Her cheeks flared with color at the word, pink blooms spreading to the tips of her ears and down along the exposed white of her neck.

“I didn't know, Iris. I swear I didn't, and neither did my mom. I didn't know just how far the anger was taking him. He met some people who felt the same way he did
while he was out at the bar one night after a shift at the factory, and . . . it sucked him in. Plain and simple, it sucked him in, changed him. The promise of revenge, I think. Justice, in his mind. I don't think that his intentions were pure evil—he wanted the world to be more equal. More fair. But the way he went about that, the way they all went about that—I can never forgive him. I love him, I always will, but I can't forgive what he did, killing so many people and trying to play God. I wanted you to know how sorry I am. But I also wanted to let you know that my dad, he may have done an evil thing—as evil as it gets—but I still don't consider him an evil man, not all the way through. And I think—I think I need your forgiveness for that, too. If you can understand. But I get it if that's impossible. I just had to ask. I had to try.”

She shuddered and collapsed back against the chair, her entire body deflating now that the words were out—these words that had been filling her, taking her over so completely. The flush had left her cheeks, and now her face looked alarmingly white, gray almost, under the cool light of the ceiling lamp.

“What is your dad . . . Where is he now?” I asked. Our eyes were locked, both of us barely blinking, barely breathing. I couldn't look away. I saw so much, too much. Fear and fury. Love.

“In jail, waiting for trial. My mom is pretending he's
dead. I spoke to him only once, right after it happened. I said, ‘Daddy, tell me that they have it wrong. Tell me that you had no part in this. That you didn't know what was happening.' You know what he said back? He said, ‘I knew exactly what I was doing. God help me, I knew.' He'll regret it, if he doesn't already. He'll wish he were dead, so he doesn't have to deal with the memory of his decision. But I hope he lives a long, long life thinking over every last piece of what he did—looking at pictures of every little face lost because of him—and I don't care if that makes me sound terrible for saying so.”

“I forgive you,” I said. The words slipped out before I had a chance to think about them. Because what did it actually mean,
my
forgiveness? It wouldn't change anything, not really. No more than if anyone else had said it. But the words made Elisabeth feel better. And besides that, they were true. The anger . . . it was fading. I felt strangely calm in the wake of her confession, like the storm had passed—black skies, winds gusting and rain thrashing, branches spiraling through the air—and we were left now in a sort of hushed aftershock.

I stood up and walked across the room, crouched next to her chair so that we were eye level. “Not that you even need forgiveness. He's your
dad
. He's a part of you. Even with the bad, you can't forget all the good. And I don't think you should feel guilty about that.” I thought
about my dad, and all the good
he'd
done—how much it outweighed the lies. If there'd been any resentment left before Elisabeth had walked into this room, it was gone now. Because he was my dad. No matter what, he was still my dad, in every way that mattered.

I made myself focus back on Elisabeth, this moment. The second half of the show would be starting soon. “I hate what your dad did, and I believe he deserves punishment. But I don't hate
him
.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, tears pooling down her cheeks. “Thank you, Iris. You don't know what that means to me.”

I reached out, wrapping my fingers around her fists.

After a pause she blinked and opened her eyes, her brow crinkling for a moment as she seemed to study my face up close. “Do you think maybe you could talk to my dad, too? I don't expect you to forgive him, or to absolve him or anything like that. But I think it would be good for him. And good for me, too, maybe.”

Talking to her dad, to one of the Judges—it was too much to think about, especially tonight, surrounded by these recovering, surviving kids.

But someday?

“Maybe,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Let's see how it goes.”

She smiled, a fresh wave of tears glossing over her eyes.

The look she was giving me . . . it was a little
too
appreciative. It felt different with the kids—it was easy for them to idolize people older than them, no matter the reason. But from someone my own age? It made me feel too important. Too powerful.

“I should get back out there,” I said, letting go of her hands as I stood up, “but . . . you can come. If you want. You don't have to tell anyone about your dad.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, gaping up at me. “You're sure that's okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Maybe celebrating these kids will help you feel better.”

She stood up next to me, swiping at her tear-stained cheeks with the sleeve of her dress.

“You're right,” she said quietly. “Let's go.”

She followed a few cautious steps behind as we made our way out to the main stage. I saw Zane standing with Caleb and Zoey by Abby's wheelchair, Zoey saying something that had the others spellbound. Caleb seemed oblivious to everything else in the room but her, his bright eyes and bright smile radiating from across the stage. I would have been alarmed if he'd looked that adoringly at any other girl his age—but Zoey was Zoey. It was impossible not to adore her once she let you in.

Still, I couldn't help but wish he'd smile at me again with even half that amount of enthusiasm. Cal was here, supporting my big day, but he hadn't opened back up to me yet—not all the way.

Zane noticed me and Elisabeth, eyebrow raised as he made his way toward us, cutting through the crowd of kids and volunteers.

“Zane,” I said, “this is Elisabeth. Elisabeth, Zane. Zane's been helping me with Disney's Children. And Elisabeth . . .” I glanced over at her, struggling to think of any appropriate way to introduce her. She reddened, looking away as her tall frame curled and shrank in around itself, scared prey retreating back inside the shell. “Elisabeth lost someone close to her because of the attacks. So she came all the way from Oklahoma to be here tonight. To be with all of us.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Zane said, nodding at Elisabeth. “Glad you could make it.” He still looked on alert, though, his shoulders rigid as he stepped closer to me. “Are you ready to start up again, Iris?” He tilted his head toward the rows of cameras behind us, capturing the performance for TV news outlets across the country. A bright digital ticker hung above them, calculating the fund-raising totals as donations were called in and made online. Just barely under one million dollars,
and we were only halfway through the night.

“I'm ready,” I said, grinning up at him. But then—“I almost forgot! I didn't want you to feel left out during the music stations.”

“What do you mean?”

I peered out over the stage, scanning until my eyes found Ari. She was sitting by her drums with Ethan and Delia, laughing and clapping her hands as she watched two adorable little boys try out her beloved cymbals.

“Ari!” I yelled, waving her over. She winked and jumped up, disappearing behind the thick curtains.

“I have a surprise for you,” I said to Zane, my palms suddenly slick with sweat, my heart racing.

“I don't do surprises.” Zane grimaced, shaking his head. “They tend to be the bad kind.”

“Not this one, I swear.”

Ari broke through the crowd around us, a big black case cradled in her arms.

“Open it,” I said, nudging Zane forward with my elbow.

He stood frozen for a beat, his eyes deeper and darker than ever as they drank me in.

“What did you go and do?” he asked softly, but he was smiling as he moved toward Ari. He popped the metal clasps and slowly opened the lid.

A guitar, the fresh glossy wood impossibly shiny under the blinding stage lights.

“It's my thank-you for everything,” I said. I took a deep breath. “And I figured that since you're a part of this . . . then it's about time you start making music again, too.”

“T
HIS IS REALLY
happening tomorrow, right?” I asked Zane, bypassing the hello as soon as he'd answered his phone. I'd been waiting all day for him to be out of class, his final day at school before the trip. He'd gone back for the last few weeks, but I—I'd been keeping up on my own time, with both of my parents' help. It was easier that way. My orchestra instructor, Mr. Keeny, had even volunteered to come over for lessons, walking me through our performance songs. The best part of school had come to me.

“This is
really
happening,” Zane said, laughing. I grinned, plunking down on my window ledge and leaning my cheek against the frosty pane.

“I know. Tomorrow. We're getting on a plane
tomorrow
.” I sighed, the words still so shocking to hear out loud. “How was Zoey this morning? My mom said the meeting went well.”

It had been her and my dad's idea entirely—arranging to become authorized foster parents for Zoey, with both of her biological parents off the grid for now. “I can't help but feel like you met those two for a reason,” she'd said the day after the fund-raiser. “But I don't think Zane should be going at this alone. And I just wouldn't feel right sending her to a stranger.”

Zane had taken a few days to agree. But he'd come around.

He'd gone with Zoey and my parents this morning to meet with the Office of Children and Family Services. The process had officially begun.

“Oh, she was bouncing around when we dropped her off at school afterward. Let's face it, I'm a decent enough big brother, maybe, on a good day anyway, but she needs more than that right now. Oh . . . and that reminds me.” He paused, quiet for a moment. “My aunt and uncle called again today, begging for a second chance to take her in, but . . . no way. Maybe someday they can be in her life again, but one step at a time, you know? They need to prove they deserve it. Letting them come to the event was enough for right now.”

“Completely,” I said, my head thudding against the window as I nodded. “I'm just glad Zoey and Caleb will have each other while we're gone. I feel less like I'm abandoning him.”

“Yeah, for real. They're a bizarre pair of friends. But I guess you and I are pretty bizarre, too. Never would have seen it coming.”

Friends
. We'd spent a lot of time together planning in the past few weeks—Zane and me, along with Ethan and Ari and Delia, who, not surprisingly, hadn't taken long to warm up to him once he let the real Zane show. And so far, friends was all we seemed to be. That kiss, that moment on the roof—it almost seemed like I'd dreamed it now. Zane was soft around me, sweet, but like a big brother. A big brother who would do anything to keep
both
of his little sisters safe.

“I'll see you tonight, then,” he said. “I have some business I have to finish up now.”

Business.
The word crawled its way into the pit of my stomach. But whatever he was doing, it would end now, right? He'd be with me on the trip. Whatever associations he had here . . . they'd have to end. And maybe things would be different by the time he got back.

We hung up, and I rested the phone on the window ledge, staring out. The crowd gathered around the sidewalk was as big as ever today. Flowers and farewell banners and that same enormous glittering portrait. The prayer ribbons had now completely overtaken the gate—the iron covered in a rainbow of strings and cloth. People came from all over to tie them there; they'd come by to pray,
reflect for a bit, and then move on, go about the rest of their days. There were flags now, too, emerald green with
Spero
written out in yellow swirly letters. Someone had started selling them after the fund-raiser, and I'd seen them out there fluttering every day since. I'd noticed a fair share of less-than-adoring signs, too—signs declaring that I was an impostor, that I had no right to be pretending I was any kind of miracle worker.

Overall, though, the more public I became, the more praise I received.

The Disney's Children event had been a huge success—and it wasn't even about the money, really, though we had made over four times what Angelica had projected. The real success, for me at least, was the
feeling
. The silence in the room at the last note of “Hear Me” . . . it was the loudest, fullest silence I'd ever heard in my life.

In the last two weeks since the fund-raiser, planning had been in full swing—the Disney's Children tour was happening. It was on. And I would be going along for the ride . . . with Zane. As soon as I'd mentioned that I was going on the trip, that it was really happening—and that there was more than enough money for a guest to join me—he'd insisted before I had a chance to ask. Zane was probably better off studying on the road with me anyway, and he had no parents or guardians to hold him back.

My mom would be coming, too, at least for the first few
stops, until we took a break for the holidays; we'd discuss the rest from there. My dad and my grandparents would stay at our house, taking care of Cal and Zoey.

Some of the kids from New York would be going on the first leg, joining up with kids in other cities—singing and playing Brinley's songs, and gradually adding in the new ones, too, the songs that had come out of the first fund-raiser. Songs that these kids would hopefully keep on writing. Only, I had convinced Angelica to change the name, convinced her that to move on, we had to let go a little first.

The Doves.
We were the Doves now.

Doves, because the birds made such beautiful, haunting sounds. But more than that, because doves meant peace. And peace . . . peace was what we all needed.

As for the first stop of our tour, we were going back to the beginning, to where a number of the most critical victims and their families were still staying.

Orlando, Florida.

The realization flared through me again now, hot and blinding. I'd be seeing the ruins of Disney for myself.

I pushed the fear away as I stood. There was too much else to get done before I left.

I was tempted—as I was most days now—to run down and check the front stoop, to see if there'd been any other photos or clippings left behind. It had been a few days
now. Better not to look, though, so I could still cling to my hope. Maybe we were all moving on. Slowly.

I took a deep breath and stared at my disheveled, upside-down room, the scattered piles of clothes thrown on top of my bed, wishing that I really
was
magical—that I could wave my arms and have everything neatly tucked and ready in my bag. But no, no such luck. No magic. Despite all of this, the fund-raiser's success, the good things still to come—I still knew that deep down I was just Iris Spero, plain and simple.

An ordinary girl, with an extraordinary beginning.

I was glad, though. I was glad it had been me.

A knock rattled the door, and I sighed, relieved to be able to put off packing a little longer.

“Hey, sweetie,” my mom said, poking in her head. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, of course,” I said, sweeping clothes aside to make room for us on the bed.

She settled next to me, and I realized then that she was holding a book in her hands. I tilted my head to read the spine.
Immaculate
.

“What is . . . ?” I started to ask. But then—I knew.

“I had my book bound up for you, to take on the trip. I finally named it, too, after all these years.” She smiled down at it, at the cover—a painting of a pregnant girl,
staring out the window into open green fields. The girl . . . she looked so much like me.

“Where did you get that?” I lifted the book out of her hands to examine it more closely. “It's not a photograph, right? It's a painting. But she's you, isn't she?”

“Your dad painted this for me. My birthday present the year it was all happening. When he gave this to me, it was the moment I knew . . . I knew he was it for me. That he saw me in a way no one else ever could.”

“I didn't know Dad was this good,” I said, running my fingers down the lines of my mom's wavy brown hair. “I'll have to show Delia. She'll be proud of him.”

“I've had the painting tucked away in my office, with a lot of other things that I was keeping until now. Until you knew. So we took a picture and used it for the cover, because I wanted you to have all of this with you. The words, the painting. The leaf, tucked inside. In case you ever need a reminder when you're gone. A reminder of everything that happened. Everything that you are.”

I nodded, already flipping through the pages. I didn't realize what I was looking for exactly, not until I found it. The night she'd met Iris, the night I had begun. Those words.
That night I dreamed in bursts of light and explosions of colors like magical fireworks that would put even Disney World's most spectacular displays to complete shame.

“Thanks,” I whispered, reaching for her hand. “I'm glad you're coming with me, at least for the first few weeks.”

“I'm glad, too, sweetie. And Zane . . .” My mom paused, her lips twitching up at the edges. “I'm happy he'll be with us, too,” she said, squeezing my hand. “He seems like a solid guy, and I trust your instincts. Dad and Pop and Nanny will take good care of Zoey while we're gone.”

“I love you, Mom.” I leaned in, resting my head against her chest and breathing in deep.

“I love you, too, Iris. And I am so proud of you. So very, very proud. I knew you were always hugely special—but
this
. Even I'm astounded by how amazing you are.”

I hugged her tighter, letting the rhythm of her heart lull me as I listened to it beat softly beneath her thin sweater.

“You are my hope, Iris Spero. You are my greatest hope of all.”

•   •   •

I needed one more trip to the park before I left—one more chance to see Mikki again. I wanted to hear her say that I was doing the right thing. I wanted confirmation. Validation. Maybe she'd find me later, appear out of nowhere like she had in the past with my mom. But the park was where it had all begun, and it seemed only right to at least try to say good-bye. I would be back soon for
Christmas, but would she still be there? What if her job was already done?

It was dark outside already, though it wasn't that late—only a little after eight o'clock. I had time for a quick walk, some fresh air, and could still be back with plenty of time to finish packing before bed. I walked down the steps quietly, slipping out through the back door without saying any good-byes. I wanted to do this alone.

I shivered as I passed through the park gates, pulling the hood of my thick down jacket closer around my face. As I came around the bend of the meadow, my chest ached with disappointment. The bench was empty. The park was empty, too, unnervingly so. The cold must have driven people home early. I sighed, my breath making a cloud of white in the air around me. I looked up at the moon, nearly full, so bright and so out of reach.

“I know the truth, Mikki. You were her all along, weren't you? Iris. You were here to help me, just long enough until I could sort it out on my own. You led me to Zane and Zoey, and then you disappeared.”

No response. Not that I expected any, of course. All I heard instead was the wind rustling the branches above me, and cars driving along the park's western edge.

I sat down on the bench, my eyes closed as I took slow, deep breaths, letting the cool night air burn through my
lungs. I loved late autumn and winter in New York—loved the electric charge of such extreme cold. It reminded me just how alive I was, my body warm and buzzing with energy.

A branch snapped behind me, pulling me out of my daze. My whole body tensed, ready to lunge into action.

Silence again.

You're fine, Iris. No one's here. It's time to go, time to get home and finish packing
 . . .

“I hoped I'd have time to see you again. Before your grand world tour starts.” The voice hissed from the dark circle of trees behind me. I jumped from the bench, swiveling my body midair so that I was facing the shadows.

“Who-o-o's there?” I stuttered, my teeth shaking so hard I momentarily wondered if they would shatter themselves entirely.

A man emerged from the shadows, tall and hulking under his heavy parka. He took another step, crossing into the ring of light spilling out from the streetlamp above, and I knew.

Kyle Bennett. That desperate, hopeful Kyle from before was gone. This Kyle was carved out and hollow, nothing left but the rage seething out in waves across the meadow.

“Kyle,” I said, fighting to take even just a tiny breath. “Did you follow me?”

“S-sure did, Iris-s,” he slurred, sneering in the dim light. He was drunk, I realized, the whiff of sweet whiskey
hitting me as he edged even closer. “Had to give you a proper send-off before you head to Florida. I left you some little presents at your door, too. I hope you got them all. I still just have one question I need to ask, though.”