The Space Between

  “Nothing. Please, I can’t think. I need to sleep.”

  Obie raised his eyebrows. “You really don’t remember anything—anything at all?”

  Truman shook his head, trying to forget the chaotic dreams of blood loss. The girl was still there, pale and perfect, surrounded by a huge smear of metallic gray. “Nothing.”

  “Okay, that’s all I needed to know. You did good. You can go to sleep now.”

  And with a kind of miserable relief, Truman did.

  Later on was when the night got bad. The shadow of the dresser seemed to stretch out, oozing over the floor, filling up the room, and then he heard a voice. A real one, and not the kind that echoed up out of drug states or dreams.

  Come with me. I have something to show you.

  And as drugged-up and exhausted and afraid as he was, he’d gone. Despite the monitor wires and the IV, he felt himself stand up and cross to the corner of the room, only mildly surprised that when he looked back, he was still lying in the hospital bed. Then he’d stepped through the black door and into a derelict church, where the shadow man and his own smiling cadaver were waiting for him.

  In the days that followed, his room was full of nurses and orderlies. They wandered in and out constantly, but Obie was the only one who looked at Truman like he was actually seeing him—all of him—and not just what he’d done. Obie told jokes and stories and laughed easily, smiling his wide, rueful smile. Holding Truman’s hands still while he shook, careful not to tear the sutures. Truman slumped sideways over the bedrail with his head resting against Obie’s shoulder. It had been more than a year since he’d let anyone touch him like that, not like a stranger, but like family.

  Truman closed his eyes, mentally recited the first two lines of the Hail Mary, and stopped remembering. Daphne was sitting on the edge of the bed with her hands folded in her lap, staring at the wall. Her back was straight and tense.

  “Is it working?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath and nodded. Then she got up and crossed quickly to the other side of the room. “Here, move the dresser.”

  “Daphne, it’s bolted down.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, dropping to her knees. “I’ll do it.”

  She reached underneath, fumbling around. After a few seconds, something began to smoke blackly. Then she stood up and pushed the dresser away from the wall, revealing mangled scraps of blackened metal where the bolts had been, just like she’d done to the door of Obie’s apartment.

  With the dresser out of the way, she took out a felt-tipped marker and drew a high rectangle on the wallpaper where the dresser had been. Then she stepped back and stared at it.

  “What are you doing?”

  She pointed to the rectangle. “Making a door.”

  “That’s a rectangle.”

  “Well, most doors are.”

  Truman watched incredulously as she added a handle and then a pair of hinges. “What are those for?”

  “It’s important to include details. Do you have everything you need?”

  Truman looked around the little room, and realized it was empty. Everything was packed. The drawing of the door seemed very final, suddenly.

  He thought about Charlie coming home from work, finding Truman gone for the second morning in a row. He’d get worried after a few days, maybe call the police. But maybe it was better this way. Charlie was a good guy. He could have had a day job if they hadn’t needed the money so bad. Maybe even a girlfriend. He could have had a life if he wasn’t stuck raising someone else’s kid. The thought made Truman feel guilty, and at the same time, he was filled with a wave of love for Charlie. He missed him already.

  Walking away from his school and his friends and his whole messy, stupid life—that was easier.

  He picked up the backpack and slid his shoulders into the straps. Then he scooped Raymie off the bed and moved to stand behind Daphne.

  She knocked once on her fake door. “Passiflore,” she said clearly, and then reached for the handle, which turned into a brass doorknob as her hand closed over it.

  THE PASSIFLORE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Stepping through the door is like stepping into the dead of night. Everything is black and cold and empty. Then the stillness is broken by a rushing sound and a gust of wind. Somewhere ahead of us, a door swings wide, revealing a rectangle of dim, yellow light.

  It opens out onto a stone path, and as soon as we’re through, I’m struck by the smell—a clean, fresh aroma, like dirt and water and growing things.

  We’re standing at one end of a huge garden. All around us, raised beds spill over with orchids and lilies, and the path is flanked with carefully shaped rose trees. The sky above us is dark, but the place is lit with bamboo torches and paper lanterns, and by their light, I see that the garden is walled in by a courtyard. On all sides, the building towers above us, studded with windows. The door we’ve just stepped out of is painted a lush, peeling green. When I let it swing shut behind us, it vanishes into the wall. Somewhere nearby, a stream is rushing along, chuckling over rocks.

  The garden is full of shadowy figures grouped in twos and threes, but if anyone’s noticed our sudden appearance, no one seems surprised.

  Over by a huge stone fountain, a pair of the Lilim are clinging coyly to a man who is clearly not a demon. He’s young and handsome, with artfully disheveled hair and features like a movie star. One of the girls winks at me and smiles a conspiratorial smile. The look she gives Truman is more predatory.

  He stands beside me unsteadily, staring around the garden and resting his hand against the wall. He’s still holding Raymie, who has her arms around her rabbit and is making little growling noises. He looks disoriented.

  A plaque in the stone path at our feet announces that we are presently in the Kissing Garden at the Passiflore Hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada.

  Truman is making me nervous. He’s very pale and keeps glancing around like he sees something I don’t.

  “Are you all right?” I ask. “Was the jump-door very hard on you? Moloch said that might happen. Do you feel sick?”

  He shrugs and shakes his head. “No, I’m fine.”

  When Raymie starts to squirm in his arms, I take her from him. Somewhere nearby, there’s a restless clanging that never stops.

  “Come on,” I say. “We should see about getting ourselves a room.”

  The path leads out through an archway at the other end of the garden and into the hotel, which is impressive, even by the standards of Pandemonium. The ceiling is vaulted like a train station, covered in paintings of Greek gods. Everyone’s helmet has wings. There are slot machines everywhere, clanging and flashing. People crowd shoulder to shoulder around felt tabletops, counting their chips. We make our way across the casino floor, surrounded by lights and bells and cocktail servers in short dresses.

  “Flower,” Raymie says wistfully, watching a tray of brightly garnished drinks glide by, balanced on the upturned palm of a waitress.

  Everything smells like smoke.

  A painted sign points us toward the reception desk, its words framed in intricate scrollwork and round, art deco roses. But when we try to follow it, the way is crowded and confusing. I try a likely route, only to discover we’ve turned the wrong way. Instead of finding ourselves in the lobby, we’re standing in a deserted hallway.

  It’s red—the whole thing, ceiling and carpet and walls, which are covered in a mismatched collection of mirrors. They look jumbled and slightly chaotic against the wallpaper, some in heavy gilt frames, others completely unadorned. Out of curiosity, I continue on and turn the corner, only to find that it doesn’t lead anywhere. The hallway ends in a solid wall, paneled floor to ceiling with mirrors, and I have a feeling that if we don’t leave immediately, my mother will show up and demand that I come home.

  When I start back the way we came though, Truman hesitates, looking over his shoulder at one of the gilt-framed mirrors.

  “Are you coming?” I say, pausing in the mou
th of the hallway to wait.

  He blinks and glances back at me. The mirrors are empty except for his own reflection. One too-thin boy with hollow eyes and lank, shaggy hair.

  “Did you see something?”

  “No,” he says, then hesitates. “I mean, it was nothing. Just my mind playing tricks.”

  With Raymie balanced on my hip, I retrace our steps and locate the reception desk.

  We cross the lobby, me and Raymie in front with Truman trailing behind. Raymie is reaching for him over my shoulder, but she has the good sense to stay quiet.

  The clerk at the front desk is young, with gold earrings and a small goatee.

  “We’d like a room please,” I tell him, holding Raymie so that her face is pressed close to my shoulder to hide her teeth.

  The clerk nods and enters something into the computer. He’s wearing a brocade vest and a gold nametag that says CLARENCE and gold rings in both his ears. He reminds me of a genie or something else magical, but after a close inspection, I decide that he’s human after all. His teeth are straight and white, and his eyes are a mild hazel.

  He studies me politely. “I haven’t seen you around before. You just come in through the Kissing Garden?”

  I nod. He says Kissing Garden like he is completely unconcerned by what goes on there. The idea of a garden where girls like my sisters prey on gamblers and tourists is unsettling and the fact that this doesn’t seem to bother Clarence in the slightest is almost as disconcerting.

  I’m filling out the information card when Truman starts to cough. It’s a harsh, hacking sound, and Clarence leans on the counter, looking concerned. “Hey, you all right, man?”

  Truman clears his throat, smiling brightly. “Yeah, I’m good.” His face is red, though, and his eyes have started to water.

  Raymie is watching him. When she opens her mouth to speak, I glance around. There’s a couple waiting in line behind us and I press my finger to my lips. Raymie stares back at me but doesn’t say anything. When she tries to wriggle out of my arms, I adjust my grip. I don’t let go, even when she bites me through my coat.

  “Are you really all right?” I ask Truman when we’re away from the counter.

  He shrugs, looking awkward, turning his face away. “It’s just—nothing,” he says softly. “A cold, the flu or something. It’s normal. I mean, I haven’t exactly been taking care of myself. That kind of thing’ll make you sick, is all.”

  I nod, even though I’m privately convinced it was the jump-door that made him so unsteady and so pale. Raymie is wriggling in my arms, looking back at the corridor to the Kissing Garden, where the air is cool and smells like flowers and cold water.

  The room is like a gangster movie and doesn’t feel like home. I never thought I’d miss my room in the Arlington, but I do. The bedspread is a lurid gold, sprinkled with purple blossoms. There are mirrors on the walls and on the ceiling, framed in ornately carved wood and gold leaf. They look like windows where three people just like us are looking in. The mirrors are complimented by a dressing table, a hulking wardrobe, and a small velvet couch. I set Raymie down on the couch, tucking her into the corner so she doesn’t tip over onto the floor.

  Once the bags are situated, I realize that I’m dangerously hungry, nearly breathless with the gnawing in my chest. Truman’s standing beside the bed, watching the bedspread as though it has hypnotized him with its flowers. He shivers, cupping his elbows in his palms.

  “Should we get something to eat?” I ask him. “I’m very hungry and it might be good for you to have something too.”

  We order dinner from room service and eat sitting on the floor. Raymie is stubborn and wants to feed herself. I offer her little bites of sandwich and try to keep my fingers out of the way of her teeth.

  “It’s nice,” she says, snapping at me, trying to catch crumbs and scraps of lettuce as I pull my hand away.

  Truman eats half of his, then shakes his head, pushing the plate across the carpet toward me.

  “Are you done?” I ask. “You didn’t eat very much.”

  “I guess I’m just not that hungry. You can have it.” And he smiles at me, a sad, tired smile, like shrugging with his mouth. It occurs to me that sometimes he smiles when he means the exact opposite.

  We don’t say anything else and I finish my sandwich and then the rest of his.

  He’s quiet, leaning his back against the bed frame. His shoulders are hunched like he’s expecting someone to hit him and he keeps picking things up and putting them down again, twirling a cigarette between his fingers or playing with his lighter.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, picking up my plate and taking a seat next to him on the carpet.

  “Nothing. It’s just weird, actually being gone. I spent all this time thinking about leaving, but I never really thought I’d leave, you know?”

  I nod, picking a stray tomato from my plate and putting it in my mouth. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Truman leans back against the bed, glancing sideways at me. “How are you so calm all the time?”

  The question is difficult and I don’t know what he wants me to say. I’m not like this because of effort or design. I wish that the world affected me like it affects him—struck me to the core. But it doesn’t.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “I just am.”

  Truman nods and starts to cough again. He stands up, looking pale and worn-out. “I’m going to bed,” he says, pulling back the covers.

  I’m glad he’s not sleeping on the floor. In the bed means next to me, even if he’s still in all his clothes. In the bed means together, with only inches between us and no obstacles, no barriers. I could touch him, even if I shouldn’t. Even if it isn’t the right thing to want. And there’s the matter of his dreams, the chance that if we sleep beside each other, I can dream them with him.

  When Truman lies down and puts the pillow over his head, Raymie gives me a curious look, chewing her rabbit distractedly.

  “He wants to sleep,” I say, then wonder how to explain the idea. “We should all sleep.”

  I drop Raymie into her box and give her a pillowcase.

  She only sits there, holding the pillowcase away from herself with a dubious expression.

  As the numbers on the clock move, and the television programs roll by, Truman’s breathing turns slow and ragged and his skin gets much too hot. I help him take his sweater off. He tries to tell me no, to leave it, but his voice is ragged. He shivers. When he sleeps, he grinds his teeth.

  Out our window, I can see a black hotel, pyramid-shaped, shining as lights race up and down the inclines of its gleaming exterior. At the very top a spotlight shines into the sky, bright at first, then fading as it goes higher, winking out, getting lost. The whole boulevard is bright with lights and I pull the curtains closed.

  “Truman is sick,” Raymie announces to no one in particular.

  And I recognize that she’s right.

  I sit beside him on the bed and when I touch his chest, I can feel his heart slamming under my hand. I hold a cold washcloth against his face and bring him water. He won’t drink it. I want to buy medicine, but I don’t even understand what kind he’d need. I keep thinking this is the most ridiculous thing. I’m sitting in Las Vegas with my disaster of a boy, watching while he burns up on the purple bedspread. I’m trying to act kind and sensible, like a human girl, but I don’t know how to take care of anyone.

  From the box, Raymie cranes her head to see up onto the bed. Finally, I pick her up and set her on the blanket beside him. I let her swab him ineptly with the washcloth.

  “What makes people sick?” she asks, touching Truman’s bare arm.

  “Germs.”

  “Did the germs hurt him in his skin?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “This.” When she points, it is vague and clumsy, her fingers twitching as they try to follow his scars. “This hurt.”

  “No. That wasn’t germs.”

  “Then what?” br />
  I look at Raymie, sitting beside him. Her face is a round moon, fat and white and blank, but sweet. I don’t want to frighten that out of her with the truth about Truman and the razor, how he was done being himself.

  “It was something else,” I say. “He doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  I put Raymie back in her box. She doesn’t resist, but the look she gives me is dubious, like maybe she doesn’t believe what I’ve told her.

  “It’s time to sleep,” I say, “so close your eyes.”

  But when I’ve taken off my dress and changed into my sweater, she’s still just sitting there, staring over the edge of the box like a slightly ominous doll. Her gaze is steady, and it’s unnerving to try and sleep with her watching. When she shows no sign of moving, I pick her up, box and all, and shut her in the wardrobe. Then I crawl into bed next to Truman. When I close my eyes, the street roars on and on like water.

  THE STRANGER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I wake up, and for a second, I can’t think what’s woken me. The room looks strange in the dark, too full of furniture. It would feel claustrophobic if it didn’t feel so cavernous.

  I lie on my side, staring numbly at a collection of high-backed wooden benches. They stand in orderly rows, facing the television, and I know this isn’t right but can’t quite remember what’s wrong about it. Our bags are lying on the carpet between them and the bed feels much too big.

  When I roll over, Truman is on his side with his face turned toward me, a lighter spot in the dark, and very far away.

  Then the panic hits my blood and I am wholly, frantically alert.

  There’s a man in the room, a man standing beside the bed. He’s bending over Truman, whispering in his ear with an expression that is almost tender.

  When I push myself up on my elbows, the man turns to look at me. The change in his features is chilling. Everything tender and good is gone, replaced by a deep, abiding hatred.