“Come on, Robbie,” she said gently. “Mel’s frantic. We’ve got to get you back to the hospital.”
Three cops came piling into the room. “Excuse me, ma’am,” one of them said. “There’s been a complaint. I’m afraid—”
Hilda turned and looked up at the cop. Why was everybody else in the world so damn gigantic? Well, shortness hadn’t stopped Napoleon, and it wasn’t going to stop her.
“Come on, Robbie,” she said.
“Ma’am, you can’t do this. This boy is an unidentified ward of Los Angeles County.”
“Your information is out of date, officer. This boy’s name is Robert James Langdon. His parents are dead, and if you call Child Protective Services, you’ll find that Hilda Cholworth has been awarded kinship care on the basis of the fact that I’m so damn pushy the judge was afraid to say no.” She dragged Beresford out of the closet. “Come on. We’re going back to Mel, and don’t tell me you’re scared because I won’t listen.”
She didn’t say it, but she was scared, too, as she led him out into the mob of journalists.
But the mob scene she was anticipating didn’t happen. At least, not at first. This was because the appearance of this tall boy with his otherworldly eyes, rippling muscles, and shining hair simply stunned them to silence.
The press and the public had glimpsed him before but had never seen him up close, and it was an unforgettable experience. His eyes were big, and the way he used them reminded Hilda of the steady gaze of a tiger with the sweetness of a kitten. He was jammed into a T-shirt and jeans, but you could see the rippling athleticism of his muscles. His appearance told you at once that this was no ordinary person—this was somebody very special. If ever you could say there was such a thing as a magical being, that’s what he was.
In other words, a perfect fit for her golden daughter.
All at the same moment, the mob of journalists seemed to snap out of the trance. Flashes exploded, questions were shouted, video cameramen backed up before them as they moved toward the car.
The manager stood behind them on the porch with his hands on his hips.
“I’m gonna see Melody again?” Beresford asked.
“You are. In fact, you’re gonna see a lot of her. I’m on your side, Robbie.”
“Is that my name?”
“You’ll remember more in time. You’re suffering from something called traumatic amnesia.”
“Do you know anything about my dad and mom? Where I lived?”
She was silent, wanting him to be with Mel again first, then later to begin the painful process of remembering his childhood terror. He had lost a lot. He had lost everything. But he’d found love, and that would heal him.
In the hospital, Beresford grew wary. He didn’t like elevators, hallways, or crowds.
They came to Melody’s room. He went up to the door. Then he turned and gave Mom a questioning look.
“Go ahead.”
“She’s not busy?”
“You crazy kid, for you she’s never busy!”
Still he stood there, unsure.
“Oh, fer—” She opened the door and pushed him in, then followed.
Mel lit up and threw her arms toward him, wincing from pain but doing it anyway. Her beloved Beresford bent to her and embraced her, and over his shoulder, Mel’s eyes met her mom’s. In them, Hilda saw the spark of gratitude that every parent longs to see. They’d fight again, no doubt, but right now the moment was perfect, and for that Hilda was grateful.
She put her plastic cigarette in her mouth and went down to the hospital cafeteria, where she had spent so many hours. She drank a cup of coffee and thought long thoughts of the way life goes, how lovers find each other in all kinds of strange ways.
When she went back upstairs, Mel was asleep in her bed, and Beresford was in the big chair beside her.
Hilda cried a little, watching them in their innocent peace.
Melody stirred, then woke up and held out her hand. Hilda reached for it, but Beresford took it instead.
For a moment, she wanted to push him aside, but she stopped herself.
This was their time, and what might come in their lives and their life together was not her business.
It was a hard thing to accept, but she did. Neither of them noticed her; they were too involved in each other.
But as she left, Melody suddenly broke their embrace.
“Mom, thank you,” she said. “You gave us a chance.”
“Thank you,” Beresford repeated.
Hilda left them to each other, and to the future she could hardly even imagine would be theirs.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WHITLEY STRIEBER is one of the great names in science fiction. He is the bestselling author of many books, including Communion, The Wolfen, The Hunger, and Critical Mass. Several of his books have been made into major films. Melody Burning is the first novel he has written for young adult readers.
He and his wife and collaborator, Ann Strieber, divide their time between California, New York, and Texas.
Whitley Strieber, Melody Burning
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