had been a gathering, a memorial, really, worried people coming together in the Fellowship Hall beneath the sanctuary. There had been coffee, cookies, lemonade. Tory didnât have many close friendsâin fact, she really only had oneâbut she had a long list of clients and associates. Father Wilburton encouraged people to step up to the standing mike on the little stage usually reserved for Christmas pageants and spelling bees, and say a few words about Tory. Several did, and Jack listened in stony silence, trying to make sense of it all.
Nothing about the day seemed real. His heart thudded, and his eyes burned, but even those sensations felt as if they belonged to someone else. It was like watching a scene from one of his motherâs beloved operas. Somber people, dressed in the dark colors of mourning, shook hands, embraced, murmured softly to each other. It all felt stagey. Jack had the bizarre notion that he could turn it off at any time, like turning off the television. If he could just find the right switch, it would all disappear.
It wasnât that he didnât care. When the dean of his college called him into her office to tell him his mother was missing, he had been speechless with shock. He had stumbled out of the administration building, forgetting to say anything to the dean, barely able to see his way on the stairs. She wanted to send someone with him, to stay with him. He had merely shaken his head, trying to process the news. For hours he could hardly breathe for grief and fear. And guilt.
His hands shook as he packed a few clothes for the trip home. His mouth was so dry it took him three tries to explain to his roommate what had happened. When he was finished packing, he found himself sitting uselessly on his bed, staring at his suitcase. He couldnât organize himself enough to call a taxi. His roommate finally did it for him, and even offered to come with him. Jack had refused, pulled himself together enough to get into the taxi, go to the station, buy a ticket. He stood on the platform, numb with horror, until the train arrived.
It was when he was in his seat, staring in misery at his reflection in the night-darkened window, that it struck him. He didnât know how he knew, but he did.
Fresh guilt assailed him. He had scoffed at Toryâs premonitions, even mocked her for them. She had stopped telling him about them years ago. Now, here he was, alone on a train, having heard the worst possible news, and he was unable to fight off the conviction that it was all wrong.
Sitting in the cramped train seat with his legs stretched under the seat in front of him, Jack stared at the lights of houses flashing past, and examined the strange sensation.
He could only barely remember what Tory had told him about her little fey, as she called it. He couldnât have been more than twelve or thirteen, just old enough to act scornful of anything his mother did or said. He remembered her saying it was like something stabbed her in the chest. Jack didnât feel that at all. He felt it as a sudden knowledge tingling in the middle of his head. It carried an irrational surety words couldnât explain, and it gave him a slight feeling of vertigo, as if he had just done a somersault.
Tory wasnât dead. His mother wasnât lost. She hadnât vanished. They were wrong when they said she was. It didnât matter what they said, what they told him. He knew. Somehow, somewhere, Tory was still in the world.
The steady clack of the train wheels on the iron tracks seemed to underline his conviction.
That conviction had not left Jack, and it added to the sense that he was acting, here in Our Lady of the Forests. He was playing the part of the bereaved son, and he wasnât doing very well at it, but he couldnât think what else to do. Who would believe him if he tried to explain? The sheriff who had shaken his hand, pursed his lips, and looked as if he might cry? His high school
Nothing about the day seemed real. His heart thudded, and his eyes burned, but even those sensations felt as if they belonged to someone else. It was like watching a scene from one of his motherâs beloved operas. Somber people, dressed in the dark colors of mourning, shook hands, embraced, murmured softly to each other. It all felt stagey. Jack had the bizarre notion that he could turn it off at any time, like turning off the television. If he could just find the right switch, it would all disappear.
It wasnât that he didnât care. When the dean of his college called him into her office to tell him his mother was missing, he had been speechless with shock. He had stumbled out of the administration building, forgetting to say anything to the dean, barely able to see his way on the stairs. She wanted to send someone with him, to stay with him. He had merely shaken his head, trying to process the news. For hours he could hardly breathe for grief and fear. And guilt.
His hands shook as he packed a few clothes for the trip home. His mouth was so dry it took him three tries to explain to his roommate what had happened. When he was finished packing, he found himself sitting uselessly on his bed, staring at his suitcase. He couldnât organize himself enough to call a taxi. His roommate finally did it for him, and even offered to come with him. Jack had refused, pulled himself together enough to get into the taxi, go to the station, buy a ticket. He stood on the platform, numb with horror, until the train arrived.
It was when he was in his seat, staring in misery at his reflection in the night-darkened window, that it struck him. He didnât know how he knew, but he did.
Fresh guilt assailed him. He had scoffed at Toryâs premonitions, even mocked her for them. She had stopped telling him about them years ago. Now, here he was, alone on a train, having heard the worst possible news, and he was unable to fight off the conviction that it was all wrong.
Sitting in the cramped train seat with his legs stretched under the seat in front of him, Jack stared at the lights of houses flashing past, and examined the strange sensation.
He could only barely remember what Tory had told him about her little fey, as she called it. He couldnât have been more than twelve or thirteen, just old enough to act scornful of anything his mother did or said. He remembered her saying it was like something stabbed her in the chest. Jack didnât feel that at all. He felt it as a sudden knowledge tingling in the middle of his head. It carried an irrational surety words couldnât explain, and it gave him a slight feeling of vertigo, as if he had just done a somersault.
Tory wasnât dead. His mother wasnât lost. She hadnât vanished. They were wrong when they said she was. It didnât matter what they said, what they told him. He knew. Somehow, somewhere, Tory was still in the world.
The steady clack of the train wheels on the iron tracks seemed to underline his conviction.
That conviction had not left Jack, and it added to the sense that he was acting, here in Our Lady of the Forests. He was playing the part of the bereaved son, and he wasnât doing very well at it, but he couldnât think what else to do. Who would believe him if he tried to explain? The sheriff who had shaken his hand, pursed his lips, and looked as if he might cry? His high school
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