The speed limit here was sixty, but I went five. Other drivers honked and glared at me as they veered around my car. My sister jumped at each sound, but she didn't stop walking. No matter how many times she turned to look behind her, Amanda's eyes slid right over our shared Camry. Her face and shoulders were a bright, angry red. A water bottle dangled from her fingers; it'd been empty since before I got here.
I rolled down the window; a puff of asphalt air hit my face. The road shimmered like a mirage in the long distance stretching before us. Train tracks slashing across the road ahead glinted harsh in the summer sun. I could taste fumes from the semis that didn't seem to notice me, that sped right past. Amanda stumbled off of the road and onto the gritty shoulder each time, but she didn't stop. She didn't notice her shadows keeping pace with her, slanted against the sun.
The water bottle glanced hard off of a guard rail. Amanda turned to look out over the scrublands stretching out below. It might have been a swamp, once, but it had dried or maybe been dried out. Now, a creek slicing through the weeds and grasses was as dry as Amanda's bottle. Sparse trees grew stunted and thirsty here and there. Maybe they were scouts from the green smear in the distance, who would never make it back to the tree line. Power towers jutted irregularly from the concave landscape; the buzz of electricity almost overcame the summertime shriek of a thousand cicadas and the low, sandy sound of Amanda's shadows.
My sister finally stopped as railroad claxons began clanging, and the striped safety arms lowered to block the road. I rolled to a stop. Amanda glanced back at me. Her eyes went to the line of cars waiting behind me, and then back forward. She stared at the train, despite the light glinting off of its sides. I heard voices low under the engine's roar and the squealing wheels. I was shoving the Camry into park before Amanda stumbled forward.
"Amanda?" Her skin under my fingers was tight and shiny; my touch left pale marks that were slow to fade back to red. She startled and turned to frown through me.
"Gail?" She glanced behind me at our car. She raised her voice over the train: "What are you doing?"
"I was looking for you," I said. "What are you doing?" Amanda shrugged; she winced at her sunburnt shoulders.
"I have to get to a crosswalk to cross," she said. I twisted around to look behind us at the white lines a hundred yards back. Then I looked at the train, and the line of waiting cars.
"You don't," I said. Amanda began to shake her head, but she heaved and swallowed hard. She was shivering.
"I told myself--next crosswalk," my sister said. "Setting goals and--sticking to them. But you wouldn't get it." The last train car was passing; Amanda already shuffled her feet. I extended my hand. Amanda glared at me, then down at it. But she slipped her hand into mine. Her touch was so hot. I felt her cracked lips, her feet, sore and raw where they'd rubbed on her shoes, the overheated cold of sunburn. I felt her detestation of my pale and spotless skin. For a moment, I met my own black eyes.
And I felt the pull of the cicada song. I tore my eyes from Amanda's. My gaze fell on the green tree line in the distance.
"Come on," I said. "Let's get you home."
I rolled down the window; a puff of asphalt air hit my face. The road shimmered like a mirage in the long distance stretching before us. Train tracks slashing across the road ahead glinted harsh in the summer sun. I could taste fumes from the semis that didn't seem to notice me, that sped right past. Amanda stumbled off of the road and onto the gritty shoulder each time, but she didn't stop. She didn't notice her shadows keeping pace with her, slanted against the sun.
The water bottle glanced hard off of a guard rail. Amanda turned to look out over the scrublands stretching out below. It might have been a swamp, once, but it had dried or maybe been dried out. Now, a creek slicing through the weeds and grasses was as dry as Amanda's bottle. Sparse trees grew stunted and thirsty here and there. Maybe they were scouts from the green smear in the distance, who would never make it back to the tree line. Power towers jutted irregularly from the concave landscape; the buzz of electricity almost overcame the summertime shriek of a thousand cicadas and the low, sandy sound of Amanda's shadows.
My sister finally stopped as railroad claxons began clanging, and the striped safety arms lowered to block the road. I rolled to a stop. Amanda glanced back at me. Her eyes went to the line of cars waiting behind me, and then back forward. She stared at the train, despite the light glinting off of its sides. I heard voices low under the engine's roar and the squealing wheels. I was shoving the Camry into park before Amanda stumbled forward.
"Amanda?" Her skin under my fingers was tight and shiny; my touch left pale marks that were slow to fade back to red. She startled and turned to frown through me.
"Gail?" She glanced behind me at our car. She raised her voice over the train: "What are you doing?"
"I was looking for you," I said. "What are you doing?" Amanda shrugged; she winced at her sunburnt shoulders.
"I have to get to a crosswalk to cross," she said. I twisted around to look behind us at the white lines a hundred yards back. Then I looked at the train, and the line of waiting cars.
"You don't," I said. Amanda began to shake her head, but she heaved and swallowed hard. She was shivering.
"I told myself--next crosswalk," my sister said. "Setting goals and--sticking to them. But you wouldn't get it." The last train car was passing; Amanda already shuffled her feet. I extended my hand. Amanda glared at me, then down at it. But she slipped her hand into mine. Her touch was so hot. I felt her cracked lips, her feet, sore and raw where they'd rubbed on her shoes, the overheated cold of sunburn. I felt her detestation of my pale and spotless skin. For a moment, I met my own black eyes.
And I felt the pull of the cicada song. I tore my eyes from Amanda's. My gaze fell on the green tree line in the distance.
"Come on," I said. "Let's get you home."
So, I read this, then the OG Gail Cooper story KiHtF, and then this once more. I like this. It almost wouldn't make sense without knowing the other tales in the line (but I've read those so many times now), but I think that's fine.
ReplyDeleteEven without prior knowledge, there's something wrong with them both. Figuring it out is the fun part.
I love the mention of the cicadas. Knowing that Gail hears the call in the background noise which was established in other works is very interesting and easily the beat way to tie these together even if you were to change or drop characters. I wish there was a mention of it from Eric in Losing Face.
You've never named Gail. Not really, not what she really is -- I think now she's Cicada. The Cicada?