“Oh…right.” Frank wiped the sweat off his palms. “But if we could figure out which vial was which, it might heal your memory.”
Percy’s smile faded. He gazed across the hills. “Maybe…I guess. But you should hang on to those vials for now. There’s a battle coming. We may need them to save lives.”
Frank stared at him, a little bit in awe. Percy had a chance to get his memory back, and he was willing to wait in case someone else needed the vial more? Romans were supposed to be unselfish and help their comrades, but Frank wasn’t sure anyone else at camp would have made that choice.
“So you don’t remember anything?” Frank asked. “Family, friends?”
Percy fingered the clay beads around his neck. “Only glimpses. Murky stuff. A girlfriend…I thought she’d be at camp.” He looked at Frank carefully, as if making a decision. “Her name was Annabeth. You don’t know her, do you?”
Frank shook his head. “I know everybody at camp, but no Annabeth. What about your family? Is your mom mortal?”
“I guess so…she’s probably worried out of her mind. Does your mom get to see you much?”
Frank stopped at the bathhouse entrance. He grabbed some towels from the supply shed. “She died.”
Percy knit his brow. “How?”
Usually Frank would lie. He’d say an accident and shut off the conversation. Otherwise his emotions got out of control. He couldn’t cry at Camp Jupiter. He couldn’t show weakness. But with Percy, Frank found it easier to talk.
“She died in the war,” he said. “Afghanistan.”
“She was in the military?”
“Canadian. Yeah.”
“Canada? I didn’t know—”
“Most Americans don’t.” Frank sighed. “But yeah, Canada has troops there. My mom was a captain. She was one of the first women to die in combat. She saved some soldiers who were pinned down by enemy fire. She…she didn’t make it. The funeral was right before I came down here.”
Percy nodded. He didn’t ask for more details, which Frank appreciated. He didn’t say he was sorry, or make any of the well-meaning comments Frank always hated: Oh, you poor guy. That must be so hard on you. You have my deepest condolences.
It was like Percy had faced death before, like he knew about grief. What mattered was listening. You didn’t need to say you were sorry. The only thing that helped was moving on—moving forward.
“How about you show me the baths now?” Percy suggested. “I’m filthy.”
Frank managed a smile. “Yeah. You kind of are.”
As they walked into the steam room, Frank thought of his grandmother, his mom, and his cursed childhood, thanks to Juno and her piece of firewood. He almost wished he could forget his past, the way Percy had.
FRANK DIDN’T REMEMBER MUCH ABOUT the funeral itself.
But he remembered the hours leading up to it—his grand mother coming out into the backyard to find him shooting arrows at her porcelain collection.
His grandmother’s house was a rambling gray stone mansion on twelve acres in North Vancouver. Her backyard ran straight into Lynn Canyon Park.
The morning was cold and drizzly, but Frank didn’t feel the chill. He wore a black wool suit and a black overcoat that had once belonged to his grandfather. Frank had been startled and upset to find that they fit him fine. The clothes smelled like wet mothballs and jasmine. The fabric was itchy but warm. With his bow and quiver, he probably looked like a very dangerous butler.
He’d loaded some of his grandmother’s porcelain in a wagon and toted it into the yard, where he set up targets on old fence posts at the edge of the property. He’d been shooting so long, his fingers were starting to lose their feeling. With every arrow, he imagined he was striking down his problems.
Snipers in Afghanistan. Smash. A teapot exploded with an arrow through the middle.
The sacrifice medal, a silver disk on a red-and-black ribbon, given for death in the line of duty, presented to Frank as if it were something important, something that made everything all right. Thwack. A teacup spun into the woods.
The officer who came to tell him: “Your mother is a hero.
Captain Emily Zhang died trying to save her comrades.”
Crack. A blue-and-white plate split into pieces.
His grandmother’s chastisement: Men do not cry. Especially Zhang men. You will endure, Fai.
No one called him Fai except his grandmother.
What sort of name is Frank? she would scold. That is not a Chinese name.
I’m not Chinese, Frank thought, but he didn’t dare say that. His mother had told him years ago: There is no arguing with Grandmother. It’ll only make you suffer worse. She’d been right. And now Frank had no one except his grandmother.
Thud. A fourth arrow hit the fence post and stuck there, quivering.
“Fai,” said his grandmother.
Frank turned.