The Mark Page 6

  “Oh, yeah? What’s she do in Bering?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Petra looked at me strangely. “How old is she?”

  I shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe forty? Fifty?” Though she could just as easily be ten years older or younger. I hadn’t thought to ask.

  She frowned. “So … you’re going to live with your aunt, but you don’t know how old she is or what she does?”

  “I’ve never met her.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “How come? Was she locked up somewhere? Or is it a family feud?”

  I don’t know why I’d been worried about being snoopy. Clearly this girl wasn’t, but she was so openly curious, it was disarming.

  “No,” I answered. “I don’t think so, at least. I just found out about her. I didn’t know I had an aunt.”

  “Wow. So, it’s like a long-lost relative thing? Like on soap operas?”

  I smiled a little. “Yeah. I guess it kind of is.”

  “Cool,” she said, her dark eyes gleaming. “What do you know about her?”

  “Well …” I reached into a pocket to pull out a wrinkled paper. “I’ve got her address.”

  Petra looked at it. “Great neighborhood. About as hip as Bering gets.”

  That little spark of excitement was back. But then Petra added, “Which isn’t very, by the way.”

  Oh. Well, this was Kansas, after all. What did I expect?

  In fact, I’d looked it up after my meeting with Mr. Koumaras and expected exactly what the Chamber of Commerce Web site told me: the ninth-largest city in Kansas, top twenty for wheat production, farming the principal occupation. Bering is the home of Lennox University and a vibrant downtown scene.

  Petra snorted when I said it. “Vibrant, my ass. Though it beats Ridgevale.”

  I was about to ask why she stayed if she didn’t like it, when the nose of the plane dipped, the start of our descent. Petra gasped and clutched the armrests. We passed through the clouds—cotton candy dreamscapes—and on the other side, I got my first look at Kansas: a patchwork of fields—gold, amber, brown, and green—broken by strips of road with tiny cars and trucks inching along. It looked quiet and peaceful, unfamiliar, yet welcoming.

  Once the wheels touched down, Petra relaxed and bent forward, rummaging in her bag. She thrust something at me.

  “Here, this is my card.” Black, of course, with clean white lettering: Petra Gordon, PhD, Psychiatry. Never would have guessed. Plus, she must be older than she looked. “I’d be happy to show you around, if you want. Check out the vibrant downtown scene and all.”

  “Thanks.” I tucked it in the outer pocket of my worn backpack, knowing I wouldn’t call. “So you’re a psychiatrist?”

  “Yeah. Surprising, isn’t it?”

  “Well …”

  “Most people would believe I’m seeing a shrink before they’d believe I am one.”

  “It’s not that. You just seem too young to be done with all that schooling and stuff.”

  She nodded. “Well, I’m actually not. Done, that is. I’m doing my residency in Ridgevale, so I am a psychiatrist, but not licensed to practice on my own yet.”

  “Uh-huh.” That explained why Petra was here. And made her fear of flying even funnier.

  “I don’t really use those cards,” she added. “Not professionally. A friend got them printed up for shits and giggles. They sometimes come in handy, though.”

  “Like when you meet clueless strangers on airplanes.”

  “Right,” she said. “Something like that.”

  We had taxied to the terminal and I felt the slight jolt of plane meeting Jetway.

  “Anyway,” Petra said, collecting her bags. “Be sure to pick up the City Paper; they’ve got the best list of what’s going on. You know, concerts, shows, street fairs, that sort of thing. Plus, it’ll give you a good lay of the land. There’s usually something happening at the U and even if there isn’t, it’s a pretty cool place to hang out.”

  “Great,” I said as she scooted for the door. “Thanks for the tips.”

  She waved over her shoulder and was gone.

  chapter 8

  I picked Andrea Soto out of the crowd immediately. Partly because the crowd was only six people, three of them men, but mostly because she was yelling into her phone so loudly that it was impossible not to notice.

  I sized her up while she was distracted. Andrea Soto was lean and muscled as if she did Pilates or yoga, with a big orange satchel slung over one shoulder, as advertised. She might have been pretty, except for the frown lines creasing her forehead, and she looked closer to forty than fifty, which, by my mental math, would have made her a younger sister to my father. Maybe a lot younger. He’d have been fifty-two now.

  Andrea Soto glanced up, noticing for the first time the passengers trickling out the doorway from my flight.

  “I gotta go,” she told the person loudly. “No. No, you call me later.” Her eyes scanned the crowd, still angry from the call, and any glimmer of excitement I’d felt seeing my new home from the air faded. I was within twenty feet of her when her gaze finally found me. Her expression didn’t change.

  “Hi.” I smiled, my lips like Silly Putty across my face. “Andrea Soto?”

  “Yeah.” She glanced back at her phone, punching a button or two before dropping it into her bag and stepping forward. “You must be Cassandra.”

  “Cassie.”

  “Right. Okay, Cassie.” She stuck out her hand, which I shook, feeling strangely like I was on a job interview though I’d never been on one and this woman was supposed to be my family. “Everyone calls me Drea.” She pronounced it dray-uh, her voice husky like a smoker’s. “You might as well too, I’m sure you don’t think of me as your aunt any more than I do.”

  She looked at my bag, a small rolling suitcase I’d bought before the trip. “You have more stuff?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I trailed Drea to baggage claim, not unlike the four-year-old who struggled to keep up with Nan on our way to Miss Loretta’s, though at least I knew Nan would’ve waited for me. This lady, I wasn’t so sure. At the carousel, we stood mostly in silence watching luggage tumble onto the conveyor. I looked around, trying to keep my mind off the fact that I’d be spending the next three months with this sharp-faced woman who, at best, didn’t seem to have time for me.

  A lot of the people wore glazed expressions, on autopilot until they’d completed the motions to get from here to wherever they really wanted to be. For most, that would probably take a few hours. For me, much longer. Fleetingly I thought about calling Mr. Koumaras and telling him to forget it, I’d forfeit the money, but that was ridiculous, of course. Temporary, I kept telling myself. Three months. Ninety days. Less time than it takes to grow out a bad haircut, right?

  It got better when we were in the car. A little bit.

  “This your first time here?” Drea asked, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror as she changed lanes.

  “Umm …” I wasn’t sure how to answer. Of course it wasn’t my first time. Didn’t she know I’d been born here? “My first that I remember,” I finally said. I thought maybe she’d run with it, tell me about my family or, at least, about the town. When she didn’t, I asked, “You grew up here?”

  “Yeah. Couldn’t wait to get out. Can’t believe I’m back.”

  “How long have you been back?”

  “Almost seven years.” She shook her head, muttering, “Fucking incredible.”

  “Where were you before?”

  “Atlanta. Went there for grad school and stayed.”

  So she hadn’t been here when I was born. Or when my parents died two years later. I wanted to ask Drea more, but I worried that personal questions would sound like I was trying to get the scoop on what she could offer me this summer, rather than just being grateful she was taking me in. I assumed that’s how she viewed it, though I didn’t want to be here any more than she appeared to want me.

  Of course, I had questions about m
y parents too. Plenty of them. But I could tell these would have to wait until another time. I let silence take over the car and she seemed fine with that.

  Despite the awkwardness between us, there was something immediately comfortable and familiar about the Kansas landscape outside. My window was partially open, smells of earth and dried hay blowing gently through the car as we passed acres of farmland, different from Pennsylvania’s only in its flatness. It looked like just the kind of place I needed right now—quiet, tranquil, and sparsely populated with people I didn’t know.

  It was two hours from the Wichita airport to Bering. Drea and I talked a little more on the ride. I asked about her work, one thing she seemed excited about, though it was hard to imagine why. She went on and on about some promotion for a bank with posters, flyers, contests, yadda, yadda, yadda. If I ever wanted to talk, this was a sure-win category. For her, at least.

  As we approached the city, the fields gave way to clapboard farmhouses, less charming ranches, and the occasional strip mall. When we passed a few mini-skyscrapers, I figured we’d arrived.

  “This is my neighborhood,” she said finally. “Bering East. My apartment’s just another block ahead.”

  I could see what Petra meant. Drea’s neighborhood was kind of hip. There were people out on their stoops, books in hand, smoking cigarettes, and wearing all manner of clothes and shoes and skin colors. The whole of the neighborhood looked about four blocks long, with every nationality and lifestyle packed in. Sophistication on a small-city scale. Perfect.

  We lugged my suitcases up steep stairs to her apartment on the top floor, the elevator broken. “Again!” Drea fumed.

  The apartment was updated and airy, cozy and antique all at the same time. I loved it.

  “This’ll be your room,” Drea said after she’d led me down a narrow hallway. “It’s not much, but it’s the best space I’ve got.”

  “Thanks,” I answered. “It’s awesome.” And it was. Small, but one wall was totally brick, with a huge old-fashioned iron clock face. There was a woven straw carpet and Indian-print bedding in deep red and purple.

  “Yeah,” Drea said. “It’s my guest room, but I’m not expecting anyone … well, anyone else … this summer.” She slung my suitcase, the smaller one that she’d rolled in, onto the bed before turning back to me. “You know, Cassie, I work a lot. Nights, weekends. I travel, sometimes on short notice. My job is very demanding. You’re welcome to stay here, but don’t expect much from me. I won’t be taking you to the mall or movies or … whatever it is, you know, kids like you like to do. You’ll be pretty much on your own.”

  She left out “take it or leave it,” but I got the picture. I thought it was time to let her know this wasn’t my choice either.

  “That fine,” I said evenly. “You know, I would have been happy to stay in Ashville, but Nan’s will said I had to come. I’m sorry to put you out like this.”

  She shrugged. “It’s only for the summer, right?”

  “Right.” And then, because I couldn’t fathom the answer, I asked her, “Why did you even agree to have me stay here? I mean, were you close to Nan or something?”

  Drea shook her head. “Nope, barely knew her. I met her at the funeral.” She dropped her eyes, the only uncertainty she’d shown all day. “Your father’s funeral,” she added, staring out the window. “Saw her a few other times. I’d actually kind of forgotten about her asking me to do this.” Drea looked back at me, shrugging. “It was a long time ago. She was out here, caught me at a tough moment. I’d just divorced my husband, guess I was feeling a little lonely, vulnerable … maybe back then I’d been thinking about some kid left all alone, feeling that same way.”

  I nodded, not sure how to respond. The mention of my father kind of threw me. It never left my mind that this was his sister, but she hadn’t brought him up once until now. Before coming, I’d wondered if there would be weepy sessions over old photo books and stories about their childhood. The idea of it had filled me with an equal mix of curiosity and dread—I’d had enough of teary reminiscence from Agnes and Nan’s other friends. But Drea clearly wasn’t the type. Still, she was my blood relative, someone who knew the father I couldn’t remember. It was jarring to be reminded of that and I wondered what I might learn about him and my mother over the course of these next ninety days.

  Drea looked at her watch. “Listen,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I should really get back to work. I’ve got a huge presentation tomorrow. I’m sorry to do this on your first day here …”

  “No, no, that’s fine,” I said. “I’ll just … you know, um, get unpacked and stuff.”

  “Great,” Drea said, heading for the door. She stuck her head back in the room. “There’s a set of keys for you by the front door. Feel free to go out or whatever.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Make yourself at home,” she called, her heels click-clacking quickly down the worn floorboards. The door slammed shut behind her.

  “I guess I don’t have much choice,” I said to the empty apartment.

  chapter 9

  I spent about an hour putting away my clothes and checking out the rest of the apartment. The only other rooms were the bathroom, which Drea had forgotten to show me, and her room, which I’m sure she hadn’t forgotten but I wanted to see anyway.

  I stood by the sofa looking out the big windows to the busy street below, feeling more energized than I had in weeks. If Drea wasn’t exaggerating—and my brief experience told me she wasn’t—I would have this place to myself a lot of the time. It would be like having my own apartment, a cool one at that, in a new town, with fresh, unknown faces. Not bad. Maybe Nan had had the right idea after all.

  I decided to head out, attaching the keys Drea left me to my ring that still carried the ones for our Ashville apartment, my bike lock, and some other randoms.

  The streets of downtown Bering were clean and lined with mature trees and iron lampposts. It was small, comfortable, and naggingly familiar, but in a good way. I felt at home. It was more than Bering being like Ashville, I thought. This is where I was from. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that I was born among these people, maybe in the same hospital as some, our mothers sharing a room or a doctor.

  I wandered for a while, then, thinking I’d take Petra’s advice and pick up a City Paper, circled back to the bookstore below Drea’s apartment. I sat on an iron bench outside and flipped open the newsprint magazine. Right away I saw what Petra meant—there was a section dubiously titled “The Weekly Wassup,” with lists of street fairs, outdoor concerts, poetry readings, a lot of them taking place right downtown or on the campus of Lennox University.

  I’d circled a few that might be worth checking out, when three girls and a boy came out of the bookstore, smiling and laughing. They wore short-sleeved shirts and tank tops a little too early and reminded me of my classmates, even myself before Nan died, enjoying the final days of school. They sauntered down the street and, having already gone through most of the City Paper, I tucked it into my book bag and followed them.

  “… not as good as The Dead Zone,” the boy was saying as I fell into step a few paces behind.

  “Or Salem’s Lot. Or Carrie,” a girl with short dark hair, nearly a crew cut, added.

  “I never liked Carrie,” a different girl, pretty with red hair, said.

  “Maybe not the same caliber,” Crew Cut agreed. “But what about The Stand ?”

  Yes, I thought. I wished I could join in. I’d add Cujo to the list. Maybe not the same caliber either, but I could never get the final scenes—the desperate mother, her dying child, the foaming dog—out of my mind.

  “Anyway,” the boy said, leading us around the corner, “it wasn’t bad. Just not my fave.”

  “Well, I’ll take it when you’re done,” the redhead said.

  I followed them as they filed into a storefront coffee shop, its velvet drapes held back by thick brown ribbon. The rough wooden floor was covered with threadbare rugs
in faded jewel tones. The smell inside, rich and spiced, was immediately calming, and without thinking, I breathed deeply, nearly closing my eyes.

  “I love that coffee smell too.” I caught just a glimpse of the man on his way out—dark-rimmed glasses, floppy hair, older than me: twenty maybe. Cute. In a buttoned-down shirt kind of way.

  I smiled back and made my way to the counter.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was snuggled in a well-used chair near the window, steaming coffee by my side. I felt good, I realized, better than I had in weeks. “If you don’t like the view, change the scenery,” Nan used to say. It wasn’t that I thought I could escape the mark. I knew it would be back; it was only a matter of time. But if I saw it here, it would be on a stranger rather than someone I knew and cared about.

  It wasn’t that I missed Nan any less either, but the pain of her being gone wouldn’t be as fresh if I didn’t have to walk past the closed door of a room that had always been open. So much about Bering seemed right: my space in Drea’s apartment, other kids debating my favorite books, and now my own little coffee shop.

  I think then—before I’d even finished my first day in Bering—I decided it would be okay. Better than okay even: good for me. It was hard to imagine why Nan had sent me to live with Drea—a woman she hadn’t known very well, who didn’t seem that interested in me, and who lived hundreds of miles from my home. Then again, maybe that was the point. Maybe Nan didn’t really think I needed a caretaker as much as a place I could learn to take care of myself.

  chapter 10

  “Three large mochas and an iced raspberry smoothie,” Doug called over the clatter of mugs and metal.

  “Got it.” I reached for the cups, still holding the Café American for the last order steady under the machine.

  It was a lot less relaxing on this side of the counter, but I loved working at Cuppa, amid the organic smells of coffee and teas and surrounded by a steady hum of conversation.