***
A loud banging woke us. Amber’s flashlight had dulled, and I pulled the sheet down to look at the clock. 2:00 a.m.
“What was that?” I whispered fearfully.
Amber moved in closer. The banging continued. This time it was louder.
“Someone’s at the door,” Amber said.
The sound came again, and I realized she was right. A moment later, Mrs. Cavendish’s yells filtered irritably up the stairs.
“What in God’s name!” she shouted as she made her way noisily to the front door.
I realized I was holding my breath. The sounds downstairs quieted. I grabbed Amber’s arm.
“What’s going on?”
She just shook her head.
“I don’t know, Dayton.”
There were sudden footsteps on the stairs and we froze. Amber wasn’t supposed to be in my room, and neither one of us wanted to get into trouble. The bedroom light suddenly clicked on, and the glow flooded the room. Amber and I blinked hard.
“Girls?” a voice asked hesitantly. It was Mrs. Cavendish. Her tone sounded odd to me. Gentle. She didn’t yell or lecture. I squinted as she moved toward the bed, her curlers bouncing in her gray hair. She was frowning.
“There are some people downstairs,” she said quietly. Her voice bothered me.
Amber climbed out of the bed and reached for my hand. Both of us were shaking.
“Your parents . . . they were in an accident,” Mrs. Cavendish began.
I glanced at Amber. Her eyes were round with horror. Clinging hard to her hand, I scooted off the mattress.
“Are they okay?” I whispered.
Amber moved so close, I could see the tears glistening on her cheeks. Mine were still dry. Mrs. Cavendish shook her head and looked down at the floor. What did that mean?
“They’re hurt then?” I asked. “Are they in the hospital?”
Mrs. Cavendish shook her head again.
“Dayton,” she said slowly, “they didn’t make it, sweetheart.”
Amber started sobbing. I just looked straight ahead. Didn’t make it? That couldn’t mean what I thought it meant. It just couldn’t! Not my parents. No . . . no, that wasn’t right! She had to be wrong! I was just having a bad dream. That’s all. I pinched myself hard.
“Girls, you need to come downstairs. I’ll grab you some clothes. There are some people here . . . social services. They’ll find you a place to go,” she said, her wrinkled hand swiping at a tear. I’d never seen Mrs. Cavendish cry. It was disturbing.
“But we don’t need to go anywhere! We’re at home,” I argued stubbornly.
Mrs. Cavendish tried to hug me, but I pulled away. It separated Amber and I.
“Dayton—"
“No!” I said. Over and over I said it. I knelt down and brought my knees into my chest. No! There I stayed, repeating it again over and over. No! No! No! No! No! They weren’t gone! They weren’t!
At some point, someone must have moved me. I was outside, and then inside somewhere. People moved around me. Vaguely, I felt Amber scoot in close. I didn’t know where we were. I didn’t care. Someone gave us food, but I pushed it away. I wanted my parents. The hurt was all consuming. My heart felt broken but the pain wasn’t limited to my chest. It ate away at my insides too, like tiny insects gnawing away at my gut. I had to fight the urge to punch myself in the stomach. I refused to cry.
“We need to go,” someone whispered.
I finally registered where we were. It was a bright office, lights fluorescent and blinding. I think there had been a house before this but my memory was dim. Ugly green plastic chairs were pushed up against a shabby linoleum floor. It shined with a coat of wax, but it was obvious the place needed some remodeling. Amber and I were in two of the puke green chairs and it was cold. Amber’s hand slid into mine. I looked at her and tried to smile. It wouldn’t come. Her eyes looked as cold as my heart felt.
“Girls,” a female voice said kindly.
I turned to find a small woman with mousy brown hair and a long nose kneeling carefully in front of us.
“Your mother’s sister, Kyra, has been designated your guardian. This means you’ll be going to live with her. Do you understand that?” the woman asked.
Neither Amber nor I responded. The only memory I had of my aunt was the faint, disturbing image of a scowling woman dressed all in black. She was younger than my mother. That much I knew. I didn’t care to know more. The woman in front of us frowned at our lack of response and looked behind her at an older man leaning against a scarred desk. He nodded.
“We’ll be taking you to her soon,” she said.
I felt Amber’s hand tighten in mine. I shut my mind down quickly. The woman moved away from us and started filling out paperwork. I let my mind wander again. It seemed easier to move through each minute using only vague images, never fully concentrating on each individual moment. The hurt had eaten a hole through my stomach. I wondered why no one else could see the wound.
“Time to go,” a voice said distantly.
There were images again—a car, a brief drive, a sign that read: Blackstone Abbey. I didn’t really focus until we entered a long driveway. It was well manicured with trees lining the avenue. Each one was spaced precisely. Sun dappled the road. Amber was leaning against me.
“There it is,” a voice said.
I looked up and up and up again. The building that came into view was huge and made of grey stone. The front was circular and looked eerily like a church. The rest of the building seemed to stretch forever outward on both sides. It was three stories high. The face of the structure appeared new, gardens lining the building in sporadic well designed plots along the front. The closer we got; however, the more visible the age became. The structure was old. Any renovations done couldn’t hide the maturity the building still maintained. It was like botox. It only held the attention briefly.
“What is this?” Amber asked.
I couldn’t look away from the building.
“This is your new home,” the woman from earlier said brightly. The enthusiasm sounded forced. A numbing chill crept up my spine.
“Your aunt is the Abbess of Blackstone Abbey. She resides here with her Order. She seems to be a lovely woman.”
“We’ll be living in a church?” I surprised myself by asking.
Everyone froze. It was the first time I had spoken since receiving the news of our parents’ death. I couldn’t avoid it any longer. Our parents were gone. The gnawing intensified.
“You’ll be a part of the Abbey community, yes,” the woman answered.
I think she realized my reluctance. Who grew up in a church? The car pulled to a stop. It was then that I noticed the woman. Amber gasped from beside me. She looked just like our mother, only younger.
“Aunt Kyra,” Amber murmured.
I stared. It was hard not to. She was a tall blonde-haired beauty with piercing blue eyes who exuded the kind of presence that demanded attention. Her body was enfolded in a billowing black robe that made her shape mostly indistinguishable. She was frowning. I frowned back. She may look a lot like our mother but the similarities ended there. Her eyes were too cold.
“Mr. Adams, Ms. Smith,” my aunt said cordially as we climbed out of the car.
She shook the social workers’ hands then turned toward Amber and me. We clutched each other tightly.
“Amber, Dayton . . .”
She scrutinized us a moment. Her eyes raked over our disheveled clothes and weary faces, and I caught a glimpse of disdain in her gaze. It made me scowl. Our parents were dead. We’d not been concerned with our appearance. Aunt Kyra continued to study us, and I looked down at my shoes self-consciously. I knew what she saw. Amber’s hair and eyes matched Aunt Kyra’s. I was different. With auburn curls and green eyes, I more resembled my father. Both of us had the dark circles and red eyes brought on by grief. My eyes were dry from unshed tears. Amber's was swollen.
“Welc
ome to Blackstone,” she said simply. “I’ve hired a local woman to help with your care.”
She turned toward the Abbey. Our eyes followed hers. A merry, rotund woman bustled forward with a smile. She wore big round glasses, and was fighting the wind for control of a disheveled mousy brown bun. Pins didn’t seem to stay well in her hair.
“This is Diane. You’ll go with her for now."
The ordered command was meant for Amber and me but was directed at the smiling woman. I bit my tongue to keep my expression neutral. Her indifference hurt. Diane took us each by the hand. It meant Amber and I had to let go of each other. Emptiness filled me, and my lungs burned with unshed tears. I thought of the Sand Man’s mountain, and I lifted my chin stubbornly. I can do it. I can, I thought. We were pushed gently toward the Abbey as our Aunt turned back toward the two social workers. We never heard what was said.