Chapter 20

Chapter

Twenty

Mr. and Mrs. Turnblad live in precisely the kind of quaint Midwest suburban house I'd expect from decent foster parents in a made-for-TV family movie. It's small but well taken care of with a fresh coat of paint in a warm, inviting color and a white picket barrier around the flower beds surrounding the house. Toys are scattered about the fenced play area, but I don't see the children who go with them. At first glance, it appears the Turnblads have created a happy environment for their foster children. I can see why Conrad remembers them fondly.

"This looks better than the last neighborhood," Paul says as he cranes his neck to check out the house.

"Thank you for the ride." I reach for my backpack behind me, hooking it with my arm as I clutch my phone. My eyes meet Diana's. She holds her dirty stuffed animal. "May I say goodbye to Plop?"

Diana thinks for a moment and then hands the dog to me. I work my hands over the toy, squeezing it and checking the seams for signs that someone has messed with it. It appears harmless enough, but I don't like how it showed up after we all looked for it.

"Goodbye, Mr. Plop." I reluctantly hand the animal back. To Diana, I say, "Thank you for being kind to me when I needed it. You're a very remarkable person. I'll miss you. I…"

What more can I really say? Nothing is sufficient enough to express what I'm feeling, and no amount of pouring out my desperation will make their lives better.

"Goodbye." I get out of the car and push the door shut behind me.

"Hey, wait, Tam—" Paul's voice is stamped out as the door slams.

I turn and lift my hand to say goodbye, but I can't make eye contact. It takes all my energy to focus on walking toward the house.

Don't look back.

Don't look back.

The words are like a mantra as I take each step. I feel the phone vibrate in my hand and glance down.

A text from Conrad reads, "You there?"

I type back, "Just arrived. All good."

I hear the front door open and plaster on a smile as I look up. A kindly man greets me. His fingers are splayed as he waves from the porch. He wears a pink and white apron with ruffled edges over a button-down shirt and khakis. I assume the apron embroidered with the words "Queen Chef" belongs to his wife.

"Mary?" the man calls out from the small porch. "I'm Larry. Welcome! Welcome! Come on in. We've been expecting you."

Larry is excited to see me. It's a strange feeling.

"I hope you like pot roast," he says, holding open the door as I approach. "Marge took the kids to a skating party, but they'll be back in a jiff."

I reach the concrete steps leading to the porch. I listen for Paul to drive away, but his engine idles behind me.

Before I can answer, Larry is talking again. "How was your trip? You're coming from New York, right? Con?—"

"Tamara!" Diana's hoarse scream forces me to turn around. Her car door is open, and her small legs fall out of the back seat. "Don't leave me!"

"Who's this?" Larry asks.

I ignore him as I move to intercept Diana.

"Diana," Paul says sternly, getting out of the car. "You can't keep jumping out…"

I bend down to catch the girl as her small arms wrap tightly around my neck. The impact of her weight causes me to stumble slightly, but I manage to keep my balance. As I'm about to stand upright, I soothe, "It's okay?—"

Boom!

A deafening explosion resonates behind us, and a wave of intense heat engulfs my back. My body flings forward. I can't stop the fall, so I instinctively turn to shield Diana from impact as we plunge onto the grass. A storm of fiery debris rains around us, and the all-too-familiar smell of smoke soon follows.

Diana screams in terror. I roll over to protect her, hoping the worst is over. Paul dives onto the grass and slides next to us. He covers us with his body.

Diana trembles violently. Paul's weight presses into my back, and his leg pins me down. I hear thuds as pieces of the house land all around us. The force of the explosion leaves my head stunned as if someone struck me on the back of my skull with a baseball bat. My hammering heartbeat is the only thing I hear as everything else becomes muffled. I'm not sure how long we stay like that, muscles braced for the worst, thoughts frozen in fear as we will the seconds to pass.

"We're okay," Paul says, but the words are more like a plea than a statement.

Gradually, noises start to invade the numbed silence. Neighborhood dogs bark erratically, adding to the chaos. Shouts erupt from people coming out to see what happened.

I try to steady my breathing, and we're slow to untangle our limbs. When I manage to turn, I see the fiery husk of the home in ruins. Flames eat at the wood, sending smoke and sparks into the air. The embers catch my eye, reminding me of the night of my birthday when I watched fiery butterflies turn to ash. I had been drunk and high then and probably hallucinating a little, but I'm sober now, and I can still see the shape of them in the dying embers.

Larry is on his stomach on the lawn.

"Larry!" A man in a bathrobe appears next to him. "Who's inside?"

Another man in workout gear is trying to get near the front door. He shields his face as he tries to brave the fire.

"Stop," Mr. Bathrobe yells. "They're not home."

I didn't hear Larry answer, but he must have.

"Diana, look at me." Paul moves behind me. "Does anything hurt?"

Dazed, I watch the pandemonium unfolding in front of the burning house.

Another fire? This can't be happening.

Three fires in my proximity can no longer be written off as a coincidence. I can't deny the truth. Someone wants me dead, and they have no problem taking out innocent bystanders to do it. I think of the foster kids who could have been home. By the grace of some universal force, they had a skating party. I would not have been able to bear it otherwise. There has been too much death around me.

"Are you all right?" A woman appears over us. The flames backlight her red hair, making it seem like she's on fire. I recoil from her.

Paul's hands move over my body as he examines me. "We're all right. We're all right."

The only person he seems to be convincing is himself.

Eyes from the gathering crowd move from us to the house and back again. We sit in a clean patch of grass. Miraculously, the debris has fallen in a perfect circle around us.

"You're lucky you weren't hit," the redhead says. "Give thanks. Someone up there is looking out for you."

Why is the woman staring at me as she says it? Did she have something to do with this? I want to ask her what she knows.

Paul grabs my face, forcing me to look at him as he stares at my eyes for several seconds. "Your pupils look normal. I think you're okay. Just in shock."

"I have my hose," a man shouts as he tries to use a garden hose to fight the flames. He assumes a wide stance and blocks the stream with this thumb to make it spray farther. It would be comical if it weren't so dire.

"The fire department is on its way," another neighbor adds. "Wet Jack's house. Keep it from taking out the neighborhood."

The amateur firefighter redirects the stream of his garden hose to the neighbor's siding.

"Move the cars. Clear a path," yet another neighbor shouts. "Take those kids down the block, Janet!"

"Come on." Paul shoves my backpack at me before lifting Diana into his arms. "We're getting out of here."

I follow his lead as we get into his car. The man in the bathrobe waves him to drive as they try to clear the road for the emergency vehicles.

Paul weaves the SUV through the debris and then keeps driving. No one tries to stop us. I roll down the window to look. The wind whips the back of my head as I watch the scene disappear from view.

Dark smoke filters into the sky, marking where the house is located. Sirens echo, but I don't see the fire trucks. The SUV seatbelt alarm starts to ding, warning me to get into my seat and buckle up, but I ignore it.

I roll up the window. The inside of the car smells like smoke, and I realize it's emitting from our clothes.

"Diana?" Paul asks, breaking our heavy silence.

The girl sniffles in response.

The sound springs me into action, and I crawl into the back seat and slide next to her. I place my arm around her and pull her against my side. Plop is on the floor, and I grab the stuffed animal to bring it into our hug.

Diana isn't shaking like I expect her to be. Is she in shock? Two explosions in less than a week, plus a funeral, plus the motel. I can't help but think I've irreparably scarred the poor child.

I tried to do the right thing by them, and something terrible happened. Again.

"There were toys in the yard," Paul says, stunned.

"The Turnblads are foster parents," I say. "The kids and wife weren't home."

Paul nods that he hears me. "Thank goodness. That could have been so much worse."

Conrad said the Turnblads are good people. They don't deserve this. None of them deserved to meet me. I'm cursed, and it's affecting those I encounter.

What the hell is going on? Who is doing this? Why?

"It's all right, honey," Paul says. "Everything is going to be all right."

I know he's not talking to me, but I take comfort in his reassuring tone.

"I know." Diana's hand snakes up to toy with my necklace. "I'm not scared. We're protected."

My eyes meet Paul's in the mirror.

"It's pronounced protectus," I correct.

"What?" Diana frowns in confusion.

"I didn't tell her about that yet," Paul says.

"It's like a magic spell," I tell her. "Whenever someone scary frightens you, tell them you're Devine protectus."

"I'm Devine protectus," she repeats.

I give her a light squeeze. "Good. Don't forget it."

"Does this mean I get a magical necklace like you?" she asks.

"No, sweetie, this necklace isn't magical. It's just a necklace," I answer.

She looks at me like I'm lying. I think of the circle in the debris on the Turnblads' yard. Then, I remember the feeling of heat from the gas fire at the apartment. And the vampires at the motel. We should be dead. All of us. But we're not.

I touch the amulet. Surely, I would feel it if magic was at work.

I think of my birthday as proof that it's not magical. If not for the firefighter, I would be a pile of char next to Costin. That pain was unforgettable and very real. I almost died.

"Does this mean you're staying?" Diana asks.

"No, I can't." I hate the idea of having to say goodbye to them again. Each time, it gets more difficult.

Grief, regret, and guilt trap me in their relentless vortex. They weave around me, tightening their web with each passing second. I feel like I'm locked in a whirlwind of negative emotions and can't fight my way free.

"But why?" Diana insists, her voice a borderline whine. Her arms tighten.

How are all parents not just walking around in an exhausted haze all the time? I can't even be classified as a parent, and I feel the total weight of Diana's neediness on me. I want to comfort her, but I also want a break to figure out my own head so I can say the right things.

There's that guilt again. I shouldn't be such a selfish asshole. She's just a kid, and this is my fault.

She's looking at me with such need and trust.

"I have to visit someone." I don't know how much to tell her. I direct my voice toward Paul. "Just drop me off. I'll get a taxi."

"No." My arm muffles Diana's voice.

Paul grips the wheel. His lips move, but he doesn't speak the words aloud. Our car navigates the sea of traffic, smoothly keeping time with the other vehicles. I'm unsure where he's going, and I don't think he even knows. I glance into the windows of passing cars for signs of danger. Eyes briefly return my stares from blank expressions. None of them act as if they recognize me, but I can't help but feel danger is lurking everywhere around us.

I don't want to die.

I don't want to be alone.

I'm not sure either reality is up to me.

Paul takes a deep breath and keeps his death grip on the wheel. "We're close to my parents. I will drop Diana off with them, and then I'll take you where you need to go."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," I say. What if the curse follows me to his parents?

His knuckles have turned white. I sense the worry he tries to suppress.

"I don't mind calling for a ride," I insist. "I can figure it out."

"We should talk," he answers.

"I think I might be…" I look at Diana whose head is buried against my arm. She clings to me. "Unlucky."

He nods and reaches for his phone. When we come to a stoplight, he dials. Seconds later, I hear an inaudible voice answer.

"Hey, Dad, we're in town. We made it," Paul says. The light turns green, and we start to move forward. "I have to drop off a friend somewhere, but is there any chance you can meet me and pick up Diana first?"

I hear what sounds like excitement, but I can't make out the words.

"Yeah, how about the parking lot outside that old barbeque place where you took Mom that one year for your anniversary?"

I hear laughter coming from the other side of the call.

"Just don't bring her back any ribs," Paul says. "I'm not sure you're out of the doghouse yet for that one."

More laughter.

"About twenty minutes? Great. See you there." Paul hangs up.

"You're not supposed to talk and drive," Diana scolds.

"I know, honey. I'm sorry. But grandpa and grandma are so excited to see you. He says your grandma is making five different kinds of cookies."

"With fairy sparkles?" Diana perks up a little.

"I don't know. I guess you'll have to find out." His voice is upbeat, but it doesn't match his expression. "He also said they have new board games in the closet. I bet if you ask him, he'll let you pick one out."

"Why can't you come, Tamara?" Diana is back to pouting and making me feel guilty. "You like eating fairies. You can have as many as you want."

"Diana, we've already explained that Tamara has to visit someone. She's an adult, and adults have responsibilities. We can't hold her hostage." Even stern, Paul's voice is kind.

If I ever dared to question my father, he'd have bristled in irritation and then waved me away, thus cutting off all communication for the rest of the day. On the other hand, if I questioned my mother, I'd find myself running an additional hour on a treadmill or with an evening of extra homework. Lady Astrid believed that if I had the energy to annoy her, I had enough energy to better myself. If my childhood was any indication, I annoyed her often.

For all their bad qualities, I still miss them.

The burn of tears threatens my eyes, but I force them back.

I wish I could keep the memories from triggering. I want my brain to stop dwelling on the past. It's not helping anyone, especially me. I've been feeling sorry for myself ever since I woke up in hospital quarantine after the first fire.

Warm tears slide down my forearm. My little duckling mimics me again, and she doesn't even know it.

"I don't want you to go," she whispers.

I don't want to leave. All I can do is hold her. There is nothing more to say.