Chapter Twelve

GABRIELLA

The wooden planks of the bridge sunk slightly under my weight. I wavered and held onto the railing. In the sunlight, it almost looked like the bridge glowed a pristine white. I wondered if I was leaving tracks with my muddy shoes. When I looked behind me, there wasn't a spot in sight.

I did a double-take when I wiggled my toes.

The sky-blue ballet flats Dad gave me years ago sparkled on my feet. But they couldn't have been the same pair. The ones he got fit me when I was a child, but the shoes I was wearing were perfect for my adult body. I also remembered Richard throwing them out when I had accidentally spilled paint on the dining table. I raised one of my legs and tilted my head to the side. The hand-stitched sequins, the little white bows – the shoes were nearly identical.

Shrugging, I proceeded to the other end of the bridge. I didn't have a clue about my location but there was a strong sense of familiarity. I had been here before. Bushes with blue and violet flowers grew along the sides of the clear water. The grass tickled my feet as I walked across it.

I followed the trail of a winding stone path. Wooden signs with unintelligible blood-red symbols poked out of the grass by the sidelines. When I reached the end of the road, I noticed my toes were tingling. It felt like my ballet flats had a mind of their own.

I left the trail and walked across the slope of a small hill.

"How are you doing, Shooting Star?"

My heart did a little flip in my chest. I slowly turned to the man sitting on the grass a few feet away from me. A soft touch of gray peppered his carefully parted hair. The only other hints of his age were bags under his eyes. He had a terribly handsome face. A pair of gold-rimmed frames sat on the bridge of his nose. His glasses were slightly lopsided on the right side, supported by an uneven ear. The initials "K.M.H," were printed on the pocket of his tailored brown coat.

"Dad?"

"Of course." Wrinkles formed next to his eyes as he beamed at me. He patted the patch of ground next to him. "Let's chat."

I joined him on the grass, hugging my legs. "Am I dead?"

Dad held his stomach and threw his head back. His uninhibited laughter rang across the sweeping landscape. I rested my cheek against my knee and watched him, smiling.

"Don't be silly, Gabriella. Of course not."

"What am I doing here, then?"

"I don't know," said Dad. He winked. "You tell me."

"Beats me."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that all you have to say to me after so long apart?"

"Where are we?"

"Why don't you take a look around and see if you can figure it out for yourself?"

I sat up and looked at the beautiful water in front of me. A paddle leaned against the wooden dinghy docked by the river bank. Beyond that stood a quaint country cottage with a thick black roof that looked like a mushroom cap. My eyes lit up when it hit me.

"I'm at the lake behind Grandma Molly's house," I breathed dreamily. My chin quivered. "You taught me how to ride a bike on that stone path when I was six. I felt awful when I heard Grandma Molly sold the cottage."

"I was sad to hear the news, too," Dad shared ruefully. He looked on at the cottage and whistled. "I had a lot of great memories here. All those girls I brought back to my room when I was a teenager..."

"Stop right there." I held a hand up to his face, smiling behind my groan. "Too much. Not ready to hear that, and don't think I ever will be."

"Fair enough." Dad was still chuckling. His smile slowly faded. "How have you been holding up, kiddo?"

"Where do I start?" I sighed dramatically. My throat was beginning to feel thick. I tried to kick things off on a lighter note. "I think Mom's around your age now. I saw her a couple of weeks ago. You've aged far better than she has, if that means anything to you."

"Maybe a little," said Dad. His eyes twinkled.

"You know, I thought I wouldn't be able to control myself when I saw her. But I wasn't angry anymore. I felt pity for how old and unhealthy she is, but it felt like encountering a stranger at a bus stop."

"I can understand that." Dad's voice was gentle and brooding. "Gabriella, I'm sorry about everything you had to go through. I wasn't there for you, Shooting Star."

"Sorry?" My words sounded distant and forced. "It wasn't your fault. You weren't an abusive drunk who beat his wife into submission and went crazy when he couldn't do the same thing with his stepdaughter."

"You know I would never let anything happen to you if I was around."

"I know, I know," I groaned. I buried my face in my hands. "I'm lashing out for no reason now, and it isn't fair to you, so I'll stop."

"You're angry."

"No kidding." My voice dripped sarcasm. "Considering everything that's happened so far? I wonder why that would be."

"Gabriella, I know this is hard for you, but you're going to have to learn to stop keeping all your anger in a little ball inside you. You need to let things go."

"That's easy for you to say," I retorted. "You're dead. You're done with all the bullshit. You're not the one who was left alone to navigate through life all by herself."

"I'm sorry, Shooting Star."

I leaned my head against Dad's shoulder. The physical contact was more than I could handle and I felt tears start to fall. I slipped my arm under his and clung to his body. He seemed solid to me. If I closed my eyes and concentrated hard enough, I could almost smell his particular scent: peppermint and traces of cologne.

"I'm sorry, Dad." I could barely see him anymore through my tears. "I miss you."

"I know," he whispered. He petted my head and planted a kiss on my forehead. "I miss you more."

"How do you always stay so happy, Dad?" I tilted my head to look up at him. "No offense, but why aren't you bitter and resentful like anyone else would be? Do you know what was happening back home all the times you were away at Maztek? Do you have any idea how many strange men have been in your room?"

"I've always known," he admitted glumly. "Your mother's weak. I made my peace with that years ago. If I had done anything about it, they would have taken you away from me."

I wouldn't let it go. "But you've worked so hard all your life only to die in your prime." I wasn't convinced. "I don't mean to sound like I'm accusing you of anything. But some answers would be nice."

"You might not always find answers, honey, but there's a reason for everything."

"What does that even mean? That's too philosophical. I need straight talk."

"Just trust your gut, Gabriella. You were born with instincts for a reason. I'm proud of you, Shooting Star. You're everything I've hoped you would turn out to be. Everything is going to be just fine – I promise."

I stood up immediately. I didn't like the tone of Dad's words.

"You're not leaving, are you?"

"I'm not going anywhere. They're telling me it's time for you to go."

"I don't want to go."

"I know, honey. I know."

Quiet tears poured down my cheeks. They soaked into Dad's pants as I rested my head in his lap. Dad pulled the lapel of his coat and took out his mandolin. I had not seen the gorgeous wooden instrument in years.

The sides of the pure black wood had a painted scene of musical notes flying through the cosmos. The largest shooting star had the word "Gabriella" painted across it.

I huddled close to him. I wanted to make this moment last as long as possible. My eyes squeezed shut as I relished every gentle pluck of the mandolin strings.

Beyond the four stars, with the whispers of this melody

I carry this heart forever, my naima, you'll be.

"Gabriella?"

I groaned. A pair of strong hands grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me incessantly.

"Gabriella? Can you hear me?"

"I have a headache."

My head was in splitting pain. I had to open my eyes as slowly as possible. Adjusting to the light shining on my face added to my headache. I felt horrible. There wasn't an inch of my body that didn't hurt.

My legs were spread open. I tried lifting my right leg to close them, but the severe stiffness overtaking my muscles told me I should give myself a chance to rest.

I blinked rapidly. My eyes drifted to the hands holding my shoulders up. As soon as the blurriness subsided, I remembered. It felt like I saw the four black asterisks tattooed onto Laz's knuckles for the first time. He leaned over and gently lowered my head back onto my pillow.

"Four stars," I rasped groggily. I winced. My parched throat burned every time I tried to speak.

"What was that? Did you say something? Can you hear me?"

"Will you please," I gasped. My eyebrows snapped together as my eyes fell back shut. "Keep it down."

I heard Laz exhale and fall to the ground. One of my eyes curiously opened. Laz was on the floor of our room. His hands were on his face with his fingers pressed against his temples. A thin sheen of sweat covered all the tension points on his body – his forehead, chest, and under his armpits. The expression of concern was something I hadn't seen from him before. I didn't think I had ever seen him show emotions other than annoyance and anger.

"Can I get some water?"

Laz stood up and pulled out a bottle of water from my knapsack. He opened it with one hand and held the back of my head with the other. I lifted my chin and greedily swallowed the water he poured into my mouth. The cold drink brought life back into my strained vocal chords.

"Thanks." I licked my lips and fluffed my pillow against the shaky headboard.

"How are you feeling? Try lifting your arms and wiggling your toes."

I wanted to move, but it was difficult. Lances of pain shot down my back whenever I tried to lift a finger. It was nearly unbearable. Laz knelt next to the bed and reached for my hand.

Color swept across my cheeks. My palms started to tingle. I shifted on the bed and lay against my pillow. Laz pried apart my thumb and index finger and massaged the swollen pressure point. He only touched my hand, but I thought I could feel my pulse rate increasing from his touch.

"Whatever it is you're doing, it's working." My low moans of pleasure filled the silence. "My head feels lighter already."

"Good."

"What happened? Did you get him? Ow!"

Laz dropped my hand abruptly. He got to his feet and loomed over me with his arms folded across his chest. I rubbed the sore spot on my elbow, glaring at him.

"What's your problem?"

"I've had it with you and your inability to follow simple orders."

"If you say 'orders' one more time, I'm going to go crazy." I threw up my hands halfway in frustration. "Ow! Damn it."

"I don't know how they do things back on Earth, but take a look around." Laz gestured wildly with his arms as he lectured me. "You're going to have to adjust your feelings. You're on Xylox, for fuck's sake. If you don't do what I tell you to do, you're going to die out here. End of story."

"That's rich, coming from you," I fired back. My rising anger was temporarily numbing the pain in my body. I wasn't ready to back down. "I'm pretty sure I saved your ungrateful butt out there."

"I'm the one with over twenty years of training under his belt. Not you."

"If that's your version of a 'thank you,' let me be the first to tell you, mister – it sucks."

Laz stared at me for a moment. He was so angry I thought steam might shoot out of his nostrils. His chest suddenly deflated. He relaxed his hands, which had curled into fists, and snatched his bag from the floor.

"Going somewhere? Why am I not surprised?"

"I'm going to find some specialized tools. My communicator broke when that fat bastard rolled over it. I stole his communicator, but it needs to be rewired to reach my crew's frequency."

"Do you need some company?"

"No," said Laz immediately. He turned the doorknob open, unnecessarily adding, "You've helped enough for today."

"Just trying to be a good girl!" I called out resentfully to the slamming door. "Jerk."

Shaking my head, I touched the back of my hand against my cheek to calm myself down. But as I pulled off the covers to look at myself, I shook my head. I saw several nasty abrasions and bruises on my arms and legs. Laz had treated every one of them with blue ointment. I twisted my neck to look at my back. A light cloth covered the large gash running next to my spine.

I looked at my washed and folded jumpsuit sitting on the chair by the wall. On my nightstand was a mug of soup. It was still hot enough to drink.

I felt a sting of guilt for my last remark.