Before I Disappear

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  For Mom and Dad.

  You taught me most of what I know about love.

  “Can you hear the music, Rosie?”

  It was just a question. Six little words that would change everything. Only I didn’t know it then.

  Midnight had come and gone. I’d just gotten home from another double shift at the restaurant. I rinsed my face in the kitchen sink and braced my weight against the countertop.

  “Can you hear the music, Rosie?” Your voice threaded through the dark.

  “What?” I wiped the grime from my eyes and found you in the shadows.

  “The music. Can you hear it?”

  All I heard was the passing of the freight train that crossed the tracks behind the trailer park. That and the laboring whirl of the space heater from the little room I shared with Mom.

  The way you were looking at me, your face strained. I wanted to take that strain for you. I wanted you to tell me what had caused it, so I could fight it for you. But how can you fight something you can’t even hear?

  “Where’s it coming from?” If I could find this music, maybe I could make it stop. Maybe I could pull you a little closer to where I was instead of where it was you were always drifting to.

  “From the dark,” you answered without hesitation. “It’s always there, but now it’s getting louder. It shouldn’t be this loud.”

  My gaze wandered out the window, across the darkened lot. Empty except for the metal carcasses of a few rusted-out cars.

  When I looked back, your shoulders were bending under some invisible weight. My heart gave a tug in my chest. The way it always did when I felt like I was failing you. Which was a lot of the time. “There’s nothing out there, Charlie.”

  “Not there.” You got up and walked across the room, wearing one of my old T-shirts. It hit you at the knees. You reached for the map tacked up over the fold-out table. It was wrinkled and water stained, scattered with red dots from North Carolina all the way to this middle-of-nowhere town in Nevada. Gently, you smoothed the paper and stared not at it but through it, at something only you could see. Your finger raced across the tangled knots of border lines and interstates until it stopped.

  “Here.”

  I leaned over your shoulder. “Fort Glory, Oregon?”

  Your violet eyes cleared as you raised them to mine. You nodded.

  My pulse jumped at the look on your face. You spent most of your time halfway suspended between here and somewhere else. But there was nothing dreamy or distant about your expression now. You were looking right at me like the entire world was no bigger than that beat-up map between us.

  “We’ll have to hand in our notice. Sign you out of school. Maybe in a few weeks we can—”

  You shook your head. “Now, Rosie.”

  You’d never asked to move. Not once in all the countless times we’d done it. Not even when things got hard. And now you wanted to cut and run?

  I took a breath and forced the words past the lump in my throat. “What happened? Whatever it is, you can tell me, Charlie.”

  “Nothing happened. Not … yet.” Your forehead scrunched the way it sometimes did when you were looking for words. Like the ones you needed didn’t come in any language I could speak. Half the time, whatever you really meant to say got lost in translation. “It’s important. This is important, Rosie.”

  You looked at me with Mom’s eyes. The kind of eyes that made me want to move heaven and earth just to make them light up. I’d known it from the first moment I saw you lying in a bassinet at the foot of our parents’ bed. From the first time I’d held you in my arms. There was something inside of you. A light I could feel without seeing. It made me want to do whatever you asked. Only you never asked for anything.

  Not until that night. Not until that question.

  The clock struck one over my shoulder. My next shift started in a few hours. My back ached, and my head was starting to pound, but I just nodded like whatever you’d said made sense to me. One thing was perfectly obvious.

  We couldn’t stay here.

  Mom was getting antsy, and too many people were starting to notice us. Last week, you’d come home with scraped knees and a cut under your eye. The day before that, I’d caught a bunch of kids following you home. They scattered when they saw me, but sooner or later they were going to come around when I wasn’t here.

  These things never got better. They only ever got worse.

  It was time to leave. I looked down at the map.

  Fort Glory, Oregon.

  It was as good a place as any.

  My eyes caught on the name again. A glimmer of recognition flashed through me. A feeling almost like déjà vu. I’d read that name somewhere. I stood up a little straighter when it came to me.

  I waited for you to go back to bed, and then I slipped into the room I shared with Mom. Quietly, I lifted the edge of one of my maps and unpinned the small folder hidden behind it. It held a few pages I’d printed out at the public library when we lived in Colorado, two moves ago. The only secret I’d ever kept from either of you. Something that belonged only to me.

  I stared down at the papers. A complete list of all the Hands for Hearths affiliates nationwide. I scanned the list, and there it was on the second page.

  Fort Glory/Maple, Oregon.

  You said we had to go there. That it was important. Maybe you were right. This was a sign as much as any green billboard hanging over a highway.

  Mom didn’t say anything when I told her we’d be leaving in the morning. We’d gotten our paychecks earlier that day so there was no reason to drag things out. If I’m being honest, I would’ve given anything for her to fight me on this. On anything. But Mom didn’t fight. She just nodded and rolled over. The decision fell to me. Like everything always did.

  “Can you hear the music, Rosie?” you’d asked.

  I closed my eyes and joined Mom on the bed. I could still picture the Hands for Hearths brochure in my head. The smiling faces of those people as they stood in front of their brand-new homes. Homes they built with their own two hands.

  No, I didn’t hear the music, Charlie. I didn’t hear anything but the sound of Mom’s breathing and the thudding of my own heart. But I could feel it, stirring inside of me. An ache in that part of me I tried hard to ignore.

  I couldn’t hear the music, but maybe I could see it. A line of notes stretching far into the distance. A road that led toward something I’d been chasing down for as long as I could remember.

  Secret dream hidden behind the walls of my heart.

  Secret wish you somehow heard and gave to me.

  ONE

  The woman is one of them.

  Her clothes are my first clue. The predawn crowd at the Dusty Rose diner is made up of fishermen and loggers—men who like their coffee black and their boots broken-in. The woman’s sweater and slacks have that department-store sheen. But it’s more than what she’s wearing. It’s
the way every eye in the room cuts to her and then away. A sudden lull in conversation that screams a warning in my ear.

  Stranger.

  I wipe down the counter and keep tabs on the woman hovering by the entrance. When we first moved into town, most people assumed Mom, Charlie, and I were part of the small group of invaders that has descended on Fort Glory over the past month. An army of tabloid journalists carrying notepads and handheld recorders. UFO chasers, criminologists, and environmentalists. Even a few government types. They’ve been flocking here these past few weeks, drawn by the strange reports. It wouldn’t be a problem if their general nosing around wasn’t also keeping the tourists away. Let’s just say, the locals aren’t too thrilled.

  By now, most of the residents have accepted that my family has nothing to do with these “invaders.” All the same, they haven’t rolled out any red carpets. In a way, I’m grateful. As long as the people here are preoccupied with the outsiders and the rumors that brought them here, they’re too busy to wonder about us.

  The woman makes a beeline for the corkboard wall. It’s littered with announcements in colorful scraps of paper. She rips down a bright pink pamphlet and studies it with narrowed eyes.

  After a quick glance at the clock, I duck under the counter to gather my things. My first shift started at four thirty this morning, and the next one isn’t till tonight. Charlie and I start school today, but that isn’t what has my stomach tied up in knots. I can’t stop thinking about the Hands for Hearths application hidden in my backpack. Twelve pieces of paper that could change our lives forever.

  And Mom has no idea.

  When I stand, the woman is waiting for me on the other side of the counter. She’s got sharp features and an even sharper gaze. Cop.

  I push the unsettling thought away. Her clothes are too nice, and she doesn’t have that world-weary look that comes with the job. Must be another reporter. Like the other strangers flocking to Fort Glory, she’s here for something that has nothing to do with me.

  “Coffee,” she orders, taking a seat by the big window overlooking the Oregon woods. Despite offering the best view in the house, that section of the diner is mostly deserted. There’s a reason for that. He is sitting at table nine.

  The young man glances up from his breakfast when the reporter slides into the booth two rows up. He studies the woman, and I study him while I dig in my bag for my keys. He’s older than I am. Around nineteen. A faded Mariners cap is pulled down low over his forehead, emphasizing a strong nose and jaw. Even with a dusting of scars and light stubble, he has the kind of face most seventeen-year-old girls would cut out of a magazine and plaster on their bedroom walls. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice. Still, it isn’t the way he looks that interests me.

  It’s the way other people look at him.

  It goes like this. Every day, the boy at table nine comes in just before sunrise. As soon as he sits down, there’s a noticeable shift as the men in the nearby booths give him their backs. They don’t say a word as they freeze him out, and for his part, the kid ignores their existence. That alone would make him interesting, but there’s something else, too.

  The pink pamphlet. The one the reporter grabbed from the wall.

  The first time I saw it, the boy from table nine was tacking it to the board by the front door. Frankie, my boss, tore it down before I could check it out. Some variation of this scene has played out every morning since I started working here. That was five days ago—long enough to make me wonder what’s on that pamphlet to make the boy at table nine so wildly unpopular.

  I’m shrugging into my coat when a hairy hand drops onto my arm. “The woman at table seven,” Frankie wheezes. “Find out what she wants.”

  “I’ve got to go. Gloria—”

  “Has the biggest mouth in six counties.” Frankie jerks his chin toward the waiting woman. “We don’t need any more headlines dragging the name of this town through the mud. Take her order and send her on her way. Call it a favor.”

  The sun is already starting to rise over the parking lot, but I owe Frankie. He didn’t have to hire us without a scrap of paperwork when we rolled into town last week. Then again, Mom tends to have that effect on people. Or more specifically, on men.

  The reporter wastes no time getting down to business when I place a steaming cup in front of her. She slides a crisp bill across the table. Ten dollars. That’s a week’s worth of frozen dinners. A new pair of shoes for Charlie. I need the money, but not as much as I need this job.

  “Can I get you something else?” I ignore the bribe.

  “Do you live in Fort Glory…” She scans my name tag. “Rose?”

  “My family moved here a week ago.” We don’t have a TV and the truck radio has been busted forever, so I had no idea what kind of a media storm we were walking into when Charlie pointed to the dot on the map that marked this quaint Oregon town. By the time I figured it out, it was already too late. One look at the town nestled between a sea of Douglas firs and an ocean of waves, and I’d fallen hard.

  “These are floating all over Fort Glory.” The woman holds up the neon pamphlet. “Someone is going through a great deal of trouble to imply a connection between the problems in town and the work they’re doing with the DARC.” She puts the pamphlet on the table, and I get my first good look at it. The headline could’ve been ripped right off the front page of the National Enquirer.

  DEEP ATOMIC RESEARCH COLLIDER KNOCKING ON THE GATES OF HELL. ANIMALS RUN FOR COVER AS DARC UNLEASHES ANCIENT EVIL.

  I had no idea what a collider was until we moved here. Honestly, I’m still vague on the details. Something about smashing atoms together. Whatever it does, the DARC is the biggest machine in the world. Or so claims the giant billboard corrupting the scenery on the way into town. That billboard is just the beginning. The DARC is incorporated into the name of every business establishment within a ten-mile radius. There’s an information center dedicated to it right next to city hall, and every gift shop is stacked with T-shirts and other overpriced merchandise proudly proclaiming: The DARC: The Ninth Wonder of the World, or Particle Physics: The Final Frontier!

  To say that the DARC is a big deal to these people doesn’t come close to covering it. It’s their one claim to fame. The attraction that brings in the big tourist dollars and the reason they matter to the outside world. And this reporter is here to mess with it.

  “Do you know where these are coming from?” she asks, jerking me out of my thoughts.

  My eyes dart to the boy staring down at his eggs. His faded jeans and ball cap don’t give off the crazy vibe. Unapproachable, maybe. Rough around the edges, definitely. But not crazy. His shoulders tense while he waits for me to call him out. It’s his lucky day, because that’s not my style.

  “No idea. Sorry.”

  The woman adds a ten to the bill already on the table. “You sure about that?”

  Her nasal voice carries in the diner. Utensils stop clinking. Sentences trail off into nothing. Frankie runs a filthy rag over the clean counter while he pretends not to listen. Like everyone else, he wants these strangers gone.

  The lingering silence makes the moment feel like a test. The boy at table nine has no fans here, and neither will I if I cover for him. It’s stupid, but a small part of me can’t help admiring him for showing up here day after day in spite of everything. That takes guts, and it makes me think he’s here for more than the strong coffee. He’s here to prove a point.

  “Someone has to know.” The woman shrugs. “Small town like this, people talk.”

  Her words leave a sour taste in my mouth. The kind of “talk” she’s referring to is one of the reasons Charlie and I have switched schools as often as other kids switch pairs of shoes. It’s impossible not to notice Mom, and Charlie … Charlie is Charlie.

  “That pamphlet has been there for weeks,” I lie. “No idea where it came from.”

  The boy looks up quickly. I don’t meet his eyes.

  “Shame.” The woman puts
the money back into her purse. “I’m doing research for the Oregon Chronicle. In addition to the drastic spike in crime, there have been reports of other strange happenings. Disappearances. General unrest. Have you noticed anything odd? Anything out of place?”

  “Other than you?” I don’t mean it to be funny. Or rude. It just comes out that way.

  Frankie covers a laugh with a cough. A few of the men nod their heads. I thought they’d blackball me for helping the boy at table nine, but I read the situation wrong.

  The boy might be a problem, but he’s their problem.

  They’ll handle him their way.

  Their grudging approval is worth the glare she levels at me.

  “Thank you for your time.” She moves toward the group of loggers sitting at the counter. As one, they turn like a wall of flannel, shutting her down.

  A small smile creeps across my face. Say what you want about small towns, but the people look after their own.

  The woman’s mouth hardens. It’s a lost cause and she knows it. With one last scowl, she walks out of the diner.

  The door has barely closed behind her when the squeaks of chairs and stools fill the air. A chorus of banging starts up as palms slap down on tables and countertops. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on when an elderly logger in a trapper hat waves me over. His gnarled finger taps the table beside a five-dollar bill. That’s when I realize.

  It’s for me. They’re all for me.

  My throat goes painfully tight. I spend the next few moments collecting small bills from men who, just yesterday, barely acknowledged my existence. It might seem like a small thing, but it isn’t.

  Not to me.

  Another look at the clock brings me back down to earth. It’s past seven. School starts at eight.

  I’m jamming my apron into my bag, when I sense someone behind me.

  It’s the boy from table nine.

  His eyes are startling. Silver gray with blue starbursts at the centers. He’s tall, too. Over six feet with broad shoulders that suggest he works hard for a living. His hand moves toward me, and I tense. He hesitates before dropping something on the table beside me.