Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [81]
The post office had helpfully stamped an explanation across the front:
ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN. RETURN TO SENDER.
the twenty-ninth
I'd decided that I couldn't hide anymore.
“Come in, come in,” Mrs. Flutie said, waving me inside her home. Every time I see Marcus's mom, I am struck by her commanding height, as she has the self-effacing demeanor of someone half her size.
“I wasn't expecting to come,” I said, “but . . .”
My eyes flitted around their modest living room, searching for a sign. Everything I saw was useless: plaid couch, blue wall-to-wall carpet, brick fireplace . . .
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Flutie said, her six-foot frame slumping. “He's not here. Did you think he was here?”
“Uh, not really but . . .” I didn't finish.
As she bustled out of the room, she gestured toward an overstuffed chintz armchair for me to sit in. The chair would have been wholly unremarkable if it weren't for the fact that I've sat on it once already—or rather, Marcus sat on it last summer while I straddled his naked lap until I brought myself to a writhing, roaring orgasm.
My crotch blushed.
I opted for the couch. When Mrs. Flutie returned, she was holding a glass of pink lemonade. Mr. Flutie followed her in a wheelchair.
“Hey, kiddo!” Mr. Flutie bellowed as he rolled toward me. “I was about to shoot over to the park for some basketball but when the wife told me you were here, I thought, Hell, I can shoot on over there later.”
“My god!” I gasped. “What happened?”
“What? This?” he asks, pointing to the steel cage contraption keeping his knee together. “Ahhhh, it's nothing. Let's talk about you and my son. That's why you're here, right?”
Mrs. Flutie gently tapped him on the shoulder. “Kid gloves,” Mrs. Flutie urged him. “Treat her with kid gloves.”
“Well,” I said. “It's just. Uh . . .”
Whenever I see Marcus's parents together, I get momentarily distracted. I can't help but look at them and think, Wow. So you're the ones responsible for bringing Marcus into the world.
“Go on,” Mrs. Flutie said. She has a truly comforting manner. I bet she talks many a toddler out of tantrums at the day-care center.
I took a deep breath, bracing myself for my second parental face-off in as many days. The house smelled like burnt cedar. Like Marcus.
“I haven't seen or talked to Marcus since Christmas and I know he hasn't talked to anyone because of the silent meditation thing but then again maybe he's not even doing that anymore I have no idea maybe he is talking again and just not talking to me I don't know and I thought well even if he isn't here exactly you would know where he is because I sent him a letter to his school address because that's where the last postcard came from, oh, he's been sending me these cryptic one-word postcards postmarked from California, so I mailed my letter there but it got returned so now I don't know where he is and I guess I would just really like to see him and talk to him because I miss him even if he isn't my boyfriend anymore I just want him in my life and I'm so embarrassed to be telling you all this.”
Mr. and Mrs. Flutie exchanged pained looks. About which part of my confession, I wasn't sure.
“So. Uh. That's why I'm here.”
“You mean he didn't write you about Pure Springs?” Mr. Flutie asked.
“Pure—what?”
Mr. Flutie whistled through his teeth.
“Pure Springs,” Mrs. Flutie said. “Where Marcus will be for the next two years.”
“He's not at Gakkai?”
“Nope,” Mr. Flutie said. “He's near Death Valley, on the California-Nevada border.”
“Death Valley,” I repeated, just to make sure I had heard correctly.
“Yup!” Mr. Flutie beamed with pride.
So maybe Sara was onto something after all.
“Okay,” I said calmly. “What exactly do they study there in the middle of the desert?”
“That is a more difficult question,” Mrs. Flutie said, tugging at the drawstring on her sweatpants.
And so, for the next few minutes, Mrs. Flutie told me