My dad picks at slices of roast chicken faster than I can cut it. My mom shoos him away, but I can tell by her playful smile that she doesn’t mind. There is warmth in gathering around the island, preparing dinner together. Family is the blanket that wraps us, even in dark times. I’m grateful for it. It’s the first time I truly relax since I came home from the hospital.
Tension tiptoes into the room when my mom “accidentally” dumps my dad’s drink in the sink, claiming she thought it was just melted ice. He pours another, a taller one this time. No ice.
“The date’s been set for the mucky-mucks from the X Games,” he announces. “We’ve got three weeks to get the place in shape.” His drink sloshes as he motions toward me. “I’ll need you to come in and shoot some promotional emails out to people. That’s how you can help. We need a big push. If they do choose us, there’s going to be some initial cost involved.”
“Tomorrow, then?” I ask, excited to get out of the house. Excited that he needs my help in some way.
My mom’s head snaps up from the peas she’s shelling. “No skydiving.”
“No question,” my dad answers.
Now I feel two years old. “It didn’t even need to be said,” I say. “I’m not ready to go up yet anyway.” As with my dad’s “rules” speech, I’m being looked at like they don’t recognize me, and I have to look away, continuing with my job of dicing the chicken.
My mom stops what she’s doing and puts her arms around my shoulders. “Soon enough, baby. We know what jumping means to you.” The blanket of love is once again around me. I tilt my head against her soothing arms. We could stay this way all night and I wouldn’t mind. I’ve been starving for it.
A smoky shadow passes across the silver surface of the knife. I blink. I tell myself that it’s our movements. I look again and see nothing but the glint of polished metal with bits of chicken clinging to the serrated edge. A sigh escapes me.
Softly, my mom kisses my cheek, and there’s another shadow in the shine, so fleeting, the quick flap of a bird’s wing, the flutter of eyelashes, there and then gone.
Death . . .
The voice calls to me, as if that’s my name. I shake my head. It’s not my name. My name is Ryan. My name is Ryan Poitier Sharpe. My name is Ryan.
Death, she beckons again, and it occurs to me that perhaps she is telling me who she is.
I tilt the knife sideways to peer into it. My own eyes shine back at me, but then she rises out of them, glaring. I swing my hand upward, wanting to shake her loose. I want to make her disappear. I want her gone. I want her to know I’ll fight her again. I’ll win again. I wave the knife, slash at the air.
There’s a yelp in my ear, and my father is on his feet, coming at me. I pull my hand back, away from him. My grandmother’s head is tilted sideways, listening hard. Her fingers are over her mouth as she shoots to her feet, faster than I thought she could move. Avery’s mouth is moving, but I can’t hear her words through the ghost’s murmurs. Pain sears through my shoulder as my father twists my arm painfully to the side.
Mine, Death whispers again, drawing my attention back to the knife that Nolan is trying to take from me. I’m scared for him, but I can’t look at him. My eyes are focused on the blade, eyes locked with hers, which are crinkling with humor.
Death is smiling.
Mine.
“Do you hear her?” I scream. She’s so loud. They must hear her.
From behind me, Ayida screams again. I crane my head to see her. Why are they looking at me like I’m the monster in this kitchen? Fingers pry mine open. The knife crashes onto the white floor?—?it’s splattered like scarlet poppies in a field of snow.
A big, black boot smashes down on the knife. I wouldn’t pick it up anyway. Nolan watches me, one arm stretched out to keep me back as he slowly bends down and slides it out from under his boot. He doesn’t take his eyes from me as he asks Ayida, “Are you hurt bad?”
“N-n-no,” she says through tears. “Small cut.”
My head whips toward her at this. “You’re cut? Oh God. No. She cut you?”
“She?” my father screams. His hands, still holding the knife, are on my upper arms. He shakes me so hard, my teeth rattle. I can smell the sharp tang of alcohol wafting from him. It takes me . . . somewhere else. “What the hell are you talking about? You cut your mother!”
My body goes limp in his grasp, gravity pulling me to the floor so that my father is no longer shaking me; he’s holding me up. “Are you telling me I have a crazy kid now?” His voice climbs, and his question suspends from the ledge of a mountain.
“Nolan, no!” Ayida pleads. She is upon us now; her hand, slippery with blood, grasps my arm, turning my bandages pale red. “She didn’t mean to.”
My mother and I are both crying. I’d cover my face, but my father hasn’t let go of me. The pressure of his fingers feels like a pulsing vise around my arms. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” I cry. “Help me.”
The voice is there again. I can’t shut it out.
It screams. Help me!
Fourteen