In the back of my mind, however, I still know the real motivation here, the spark of light that stays tucked away in the depths of my subconscious thought where it won’t hurt anyone. I can’t dwell on her too much, but I know she’s there, the girl who once loved me and who I loved back.
Deep down, I know I’m doing all of this for her. I just can’t admit it yet.
7
COMMUNICATORS
As anxious as I am sitting out here in my car, gazing across the street at Zeitgeist Coffeeworks and scanning for familiar faces, it’s nothing compared to the tension I’ve been feeling back home.
Returning from the hospital and sleeping in my own bed was a blessing, but the health of my physical body came at a heavy price.
Suffice to say, Dad never got around to putting a new door up in my bedroom.
It was much easier being under my parents’ thumbs before I realized what else was out there, before I noticed all the weeds that climb their way up through the cracks in this little community of ours. Now that the blinders are off, however, there’s no going back, and the rotten creep of deception can’t help permeating every little thing.
I’ve been trying my best to act natural, something I wasn’t exactly good at even before all this happened, and I’m doubtful these efforts have been worth it. My parents know something’s up, sense an unspoken change in me.
Now it feels like the only thing keeping me safe is their own denial.
I glance up at myself in the rearview mirror, cringing slightly when I see how disheveled I’ve gotten. The stress hasn’t been kind, bags forming under my eyes and my stark blond hair now greasy and tangled.
Fortunately, I don’t have long to dwell. From the corner of my eye I notice my target, the girl sporting a bright red polka-dot shirt and black jeans. She goes to the only other high school in Neverton, and I’ve seen her once or twice at various social events. I vaguely recall the two of us holding a brief conversation at a snack bar when our football teams played each other and I was actually allowed to go, but my memory is hazy and I can’t be certain.
She’s also a Kingdom of the Pine member, but she worships across town.
I reach into my center console and pull out a pen, then unfold my list and place it against the flat surface of my steering wheel. I draw a long line horizontally across one of the rows, blacking out two names.
One is Ally Robertson. Her “assignment” is Lepaca.
This is the sixth person I’ve checked in with, each one of them under a different cover story and none leading anywhere productive. Nobody remembers a thing.
The mysterious girl with dark hair from the park and my memories isn’t on this list, either, since the name of her demon is nowhere to be found. There are several other therapists doing exactly the same work as Dr. Smith, and Ramiel must’ve been assigned to one of them before his transformation into charred Satanic sirloin.
Still, I keep pushing onward. What other choice do I have?
Ally enters the cafe first and I follow, climbing from my vehicle and limping across the street as the late afternoon sun peeks through stark white clouds overhead. On any other weekend I might be on a neighborhood stroll with Mom, followed by a family dinner and an evening dive into the Scriptures, but things have changed.
The sharp pain in my leg is gone, but a strange ache still rattles through my bones with every step. The closer I get to the coffee shop, the more I consciously balance my stride, forcing myself to push through discomfort. I’ve worn a long-sleeved shirt to cover up the burns and scarring down my arms.
As I slip into the café, my nostrils are swiftly violated by a pungent, bitter scent.
The Darlings rarely drink coffee, and we certainly don’t keep any in the house. While caffeine is one of the rare drugs my parents actually make an exception for, they’ve strictly forbidden me from trying the stuff while I’m under their roof.
“It’s a matter of addiction,” Dad once told me. “The Lord didn’t design our bodies to run on caffeine, and once it becomes a requirement to find joy, well, you’ve got yourself a problem.”
Truth be told, I’d probably never touch the stuff regardless. The one sip I ever took was enough to let me know the flavor isn’t a part of my natural palate.
There are plenty of tables open in various nooks and crannies, and a short line of patrons waits at a front counter. Two baristas are hard at work, jumping between fixing drinks and taking orders with expert proficiency.
My eyes lock on to Ally, but she is completely unaware of my presence as she stands at the back of the line. Her attention is on a large chalkboard that hangs behind the counter, dozens of drink names scribbled in a language that is wholly foreign to me.
I focus, reminding myself exactly why I’m here before making my approach. I mentally refresh my cue card list of questions.
Do you remember Camp Damascus?
Have you seen the demons?
Most important, Do you know who the girl with dark hair is?
Truth be told, this little investigation will go smoother if Ally has no idea who I am, and deep down I’m hoping that is the case. If I can get away with a fake name, I’ll feel much safer if things go sideways. I’d signed my email with nothing more than an R.
“Rose?” Ally blurts, glancing over her shoulder and catching my gaze. She smiles and opens her arms, greeting me with a warm hug.
So much for that plan.
“Hey!” I reply with all the gusto I can manage. “Thanks for meeting up with me!”
“No, thank you! What a blessing this is. Seriously,” Ally cries, her words randomly curling into high pitched squeaks in a way than I can already tell is a long-term habit. “Let me get you something.”
Ally motions to the board of selections.
“It’s fine,” I insist. “I’m okay.”
My coffee date furrows her brow in a playful but scolding way. “He must be hospitable, one who loves what is good, who is self-controlled, upright, holy and disciplined,” she recites.
I need to be easy, I remind myself. Casual. Fun.
“Fine, fine,” I relent, stepping up as the line moves closer. “Do they have chocolate milk?”
Ally pauses, her mind reeling briefly and then finally arriving at an eruption of laughter.
“I forgot how funny you are,” she gushes, touching my arm in a way that seems slightly unnatural for how little I actually know her. It’s not completely out of line, but it serves as a quick reminder that we both have ulterior motives.
I’m calculating too much, I realize, taking a moment to yank my attention back to where it belongs.
A barista suddenly calls out a greeting as the group before us finishes their order, stepping away. Ally approaches the counter, her brilliant smile shining with so much saleswoman pizzazz that it may as well be illuminated. “Venti cappuccino,” she instructs, prompting an odd, tight-lipped smile from the barista. Ally then signals for me to order. “I insist.”
My gaze returns to the board and I immediately struggle to pick from the confusing array.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I stammer, finally choosing a drink at random. “Americano.”
The barista nods. “What size?”
I shoot down the middle. “Medium.”
“Room for milk?”