"Lizzie? Lizzie?" The sentence continued from next door, but I couldn't make the rest of the sentence out, only the inflection that meant that she had asked me a question.
Being in my room felt like the most natural thing in the world. But as I rose from my reading position on the bed, an ominous feeling tightly gripped around my heart. I froze and looked around my room. I scanned my bookshelves with my collection of classic novels, took in the collection of photos of Alex, Maria and I attached to the mirror above the dresser. My eyes moved past the armchair where I used to curl up and read - more so when I had been younger - and brushed over the queen-sized bed.
I loved this room. I really did.
I took a deep breath in attempt to break apart the heavy lump in my chest and pulled the door, that was already ajar, opened.
In the blink of an eye, I had transported myself to the living room and found myself standing behind my mom.
I froze. She was ironing. But there was a burning smell surrounding her and the spot where the iron repeatedly moved over my dad's blue shirt had turned black.
"Mom, the shir-" I started, but my mom turned around with such a glorious and bright smile that the warning died on my lips.
Mommy.
I felt like crying as she looked at me lovingly. "There you are. Could you bring me the next load of clothing from the dryer?"
I forced to look away from her blissful expression, to the smoke that was coming from the iron. She had just left it there; the heat of the iron unrestricted burning into the material of the fabric.
"Mom!" I cried, the fear rushing the word out.
She followed my gaze to the iron just as yellow flames sprouted from the blackened shirt. With a surprised yelp, she took a step back.
Scared to death, I grabbed her arm while my eyes were fixed on the small fire. "Mom, get away from there."
But I couldn't move her from the spot. Instead my mom looked at the iron and whispered, "No. I'm not done yet. I'm not done."
I tugged on her arm, yelling desperately, "It doesn't matter, Mommy. We need to put it out."
My mom failed to acknowledge me. She turned her head towards the back of the room, towards the door leading downstairs, but I couldn't see what she saw as she repeated - like she was talking to someone standing there - "I'm not done. I'm not done."
My heart was racing as I watched the flames catch a hold of my mom's sleeve and I screamed myself into wakefulness.
"Mommy," I whimpered, tears tumbling down my cheeks with abandon, as I met the darkness of the small room in the rented apartment.
This was not my room. My room was gone. Burnt to ashes.
And Mom was dead.
The hole in my chest - where my intact heart used to be - was aching terribly, making me move into a fetal position in the bed in a desperate attempt to control the sobs that were turning more noisy and violent by the second. I curled my arms tightly around my middle, rocking my upper body back and forth, hoping that the gentle movement would bring me some comfort.
I wanted the pain to stop. I felt it explode out through my arms, through my fingers, down my legs, and I tightened my grip around my middle, burrowing my arms into my waist. Consequently, I pressed my arms further into that poorly healed wound, coaxing the physical pain forward.
As the sobs threatened to shatter me, and my head filled with memories of my mom, I felt him behind my back. My sobbing froze in startled surprise and my rocking stilled in frightened anticipation as his arms curled around my middle, brushing down along my own arms before I felt his fingers ease my arms away from my waist only to free up my hands so that they could be grasped by his.
The tears were still wet on my cheeks as I looked down at my waist, expecting to see his arms wrapped around me, his fingers interlocked with mine. But there was nothing there. Nothing except for my own lonely hands.
My hands had, however, been released from their frantic hold around my waist and my arms were being held slightly in front of my body (with no effort on my part), as though leaving room for someone else's.
But even though my eyes were trying to tell me differently, I felt him so clearly there, holding me. I imagined feeling the heat from his body soak into mine as his front pressed up against my back. I imagined his breath against my cheek as he tucked his chin into the curve on the side of my neck, and his five o'clock stubble prickled against my cheek as he pressed the side of his face against mine in something of a hug.
My eyes drifted closed as he pulled me even closer, the insides of his knees touching the outside of mine, his thighs aligned with mine. With my eyes closed it was much easier to perceive him as being there.
I decided to let it go. Decided to refrain from analyzing why I could feel Max Evans' warm body wrapped consolingly around mine. Instead, I figured I would accept what my crazed and traumatized mind was trying to do: making a refuge from my grief.
Even if it seemed to be in the shape of Max Evans.
As I relaxed against his (imagined?) body, the tears flowed freely again, but the sobs were not as sharp, not as panicked. I was sinking into an increasingly warming feeling of comfort, with the softly swaying motion wherein he was moving our wrapped up bodies, as he whispered against me ear - with breaking anguish, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
My eyes snapped open and, just as I was struck with the sharpest comprehension that Max Evans had not just been a figment of my imagination, his invisible presence disappeared and I was alone again.
Alone in a cold, dark room.
*****
I had thought it through. Had turned it around in my head and looked at it from all directions.
I must have gone through every emotion known to man. Fear, panic, stress, concern, regret, denial, sadness, disappointment. And so on.
And I had decided that my conclusion must be false. Aliens? As in visitors from outer space? As in benevolent cute creatures like E.T. or gross-looking critters with disproportional heads who impregnated you with their offspring only to have them rip you apart as they were born?
I laughed softly to myself - the laughter a bit too much on the nervous side to be humorous - as I parked the car down the street from the Evans' residence.
Max Evans? Alien? He was waaaay too pretty to be one.
I just had to face the music; I had a knack for coming up with conspiracy theories. Vampires... Aliens...
I smiled to myself as I got out of the car and locked it. What's next, Parker? Werewolves? Elves? Incubi?
A chill of nervousness tightly bound with fear-stricken adrenaline plowed through me as I looked towards the impressive mansion, sobering me.
Come on, Parker. Who are you kidding? I tightened my fists along the sides of my body. There's something terribly wrong going on here and extraterrestrials is the first really good answer to all of your questions.
But before I had decided to completely lose my shit, come up with some far-fetched explanation for my dad as to why we had to leave New Mexico, preferably the country, go into hiding, and change our identities, I wanted to offer Max the chance to explain. The guy still hadn't answered my questions; hadn't agreed to talk about all the weird things that had happened.
Between claiming that I had no right to answers and straight-out avoiding me, Max had not been making too much effort to throw the suspicion off himself so far.
I bit my bottom lip hard, unconsciously pinching the raw skin on the outer border of my wound through my shirt to let the pain sharpen my senses, and guided my steps towards the house.
He had not been to school since he told me to stay away from him. Since he told me that he was dangerous. The same thing he had told me about Sean.
The difference was clear as a day though: Sean fueled me with a primal need for flight while Max's presence alluringly beckoned me closer.
Of course, to complicate things further, my mind seemed intent on imagining Max in my bedroom, comforting me through my nightmares and my occasional bouts of physical pain. As if he was my personal nurse.
A very hot nurse.
I flushed at the forbidden thought.
Max was becoming more and more prevalent in my daily thoughts. Not just as a mystery to solve, but as a warm, enticing presence. I caught myself thinking of his hands, of the sensual curve of his upper lip, of his golden eyes, and grew several degrees warmer as I imagined the body beneath his clothes. From his proximity these last couple of weeks, his body had become very familiar to me and I could almost, by memory, paint out what the contours through his clothes would look like without clothes.
Gone were the days when I could deny my attraction to him. He twisted my thoughts, avoided me, winked at me one second and brushed me off the next. He was controlling and his passionate anger was quickly ignited, but those qualities seemed to stem from a need to protect. Whenever I thought about him (which, admittedly, was increasingly frequent), my heartbeat changed into a nervous flutter and my temperature rose by at least 500 degrees. Or, that's what it felt like.
Max Evans had put a force on me. Then left me hanging.
Maybe that's why I was here. I needed another excuse to seek out Max. To be honest, I really had enough information and bad hunches that Roswell had grown dangerous - at least for me. There was no need to mull it over with Max. But I wanted him to talk some sense into me. I wanted him to make the irrational rational and make me sane again.
I wanted the boy I was really really starting to like to tell me that he was special. That he could heal people. But I needed him to tell me that that was his only gift.
I didn't want any of the extra drama with his weird father, about him spending a ridiculously abnormal number of hours at the hospital as his dad's assistant (or whatever), about Max knowing something about my mom's condition prior to her death or why he could make himself - and me - 'invisible' (as he had called it).
Because that would mean that Max was right. I had to stay away from him. It was too dangerous.
Why - when there had been no one before - did I have to get my eyes on a guy with complications? MAJOR complications.
I slowed my steps as I got closer to Max's house. I needed to get onto the property unseen. My plan was to talk to Max. And Max only. No run-in with Max's scary family members (one in particular).
My palms were damp with my agitation and I wiped them off on the front of my jeans before ducking behind the bushes lining the outside of the massive garden.
As I traced the greenery, I tried to imagine Max's house from the inside - from the day when he had healed me on his bed (goosebumps - good goosebumps - spread across my arms at the memory of his smell surrounding me, of his hands brushing over my skin) - to figure out which window was his.
I stopped at the east side of the house, under the cover of a big bush, and counted the windows before settling on the second one from the front. I furrowed my brow in concentration. It had to be that one.
I quickly scanned my surroundings, determining that the coast was clear, before scurrying across the lawn and pressing up against the house. If circumstances had been different I would have found the whole thing laughable. I felt like some kind of secret spy, creeping along the edge of the house. Only, it was not even dark yet and I wasn't wearing any camouflaged clothing.
I searched the ground beneath my feet for something to throw at the window and spotted a flower bed to my left, where the soil had been covered with a thick layer of walnut-sized pebbles. Bending down, I picked out the smallest one I could find, took three steps away from the house, strained my neck as I looked up towards the window on the second floor, and psyched myself up for throwing the pebble at the window.
I never was particularly good at throwing stuff.
To my utter surprise, the pebble hit its target and made a clattering sound against the window pane. Fortunately, it didn't break. I had been a bit worried about that.
"Ms. Parker."
I jumped, a startled cry escaping me, and whipped my head towards the male voice which had calmly stated my name.
Dr. Philip Evans.