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  every face among the passengers and well-wishers.

  She knew she would not see him, but she couldn’t stop

  herself. She imagined him on the escalator to the gate,

  tablet in hand, lick of coal-black hair falling across his radiant face. She rose from the wheelchair and stood on

  the legs of a past life. He met her, lifted her up. He cradled her head and dived headlong into her loving gaze.

  Take me with you.

  “I can’t.”

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  You said we’d be together.

  “We are.”

  Always?

  “Forever.”

  Ash went to kiss him, but he wasn’t there. He was

  back on the threshold of the escalator. The steps were

  now retreating. Clayton mouthed the word Bye as his descent began.

  “Goodbye, my love.”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  Ash shook her head and spun her chair around.

  “Myself, Mum. Getting in the zone. Just like you

  taught me.”

  Blythe smiled. She looked at the motley gathering

  that had come to see them off. Her grin remained, but her tone took on an ominous quality. “Shit turnout. I did cart-wheels for them and they can’t even be bothered to show.

  They’ve written us off, Ash.” She prodded her shoulder.

  “They’ll come crawling back when we wake the world.”

  The smile fell away as Blythe’s face settled back into

  pinched intensity. She lifted the phone from her tracksuit pocket and scrolled through the text messages. She spoke without deviating from the screen.

  “What happened to the boy?”

  “Clayton.”

  Blythe shrugged. “Whatever. He sleep in?”

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  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  Ash sat up straighter. “We talked yesterday. We broke

  up.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Blythe feigned a sympathetic “ohhh,” then returned

  to the screen. “It’s for the best. For you. And him.”

  “Mum—”

  “At least now you can get rid of that awful ring he

  gave you. The one on your thumb. What the hell are

  ‘water lovers’ anyway?”

  Ash leaned forward and slapped the phone out

  of her mother’s grasp, sending it skittering across the

  floor. Blythe wrung her struck hand, then held it splayed against her chin, a protection against any further attack.

  Her distended eyes absorbed the changeling before

  her—the flushed cheeks, the clamped jaw, the right

  hand set in a fist. The face a line drawn in the sand.

  “Don’t ever bad-mouth Clayton in my presence

  again,” said Ash, menace fortifying each word. “Got it?”

  Limb by limb, muscle by muscle, Blythe shook free of

  her bewilderment and restored her composure. When at

  last she stood tall—chin up, battered shoulders back—

  she retrieved her phone.

  “The defining moment of your life is a mere forty-

  eight hours away, Ashley,” she replied. “I suggest you save your energy.”

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  She turned on her heel and strode over to Team

  Drum, barking out commands that sent minions scur-

  rying in all directions.

  Ash pivoted for one last look at the concourse.

  152

  Twenty-Eight

  Tuula knocked lightly on the closed door to Clayton’s

  room. She entered without waiting for a response.

  Clayton stared at the tablet, zooming hard into a

  drawing, obsessing over just the right amount of shading.

  He would draw, then erase. Draw and erase. Tuula placed

  a bowl of soup on the desk beside him and sat down on

  the bed.

  “Lapsi? Is this work?”

  Clayton didn’t respond, didn’t acknowledge his

  grandmother at all.

  “I have some kesäkeitto for you. Extra pepper.”

  “I’m not sick, Mummu.”

  “You are sick. You do not have a fever or the flu or the stomach upset. You have something worse. A sickness

  of the heart. So eat. It will give your body strength and your heart a small tonic.”

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  D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H

  Clayton continued with his task. Tuula removed her

  glasses and balanced them on the alarm clock.

  “This is different to the last time. She is not coming

  back, yes?”

  Clayton turned the image ninety degrees and adjusted

  a line.

  “Your eyes are open. I understand what you are

  seeing. I have seen it myself.” She rose from the bed and stood behind him, running her fingers through the hair

  of the boy she’d held and soothed and shielded from the

  world more times than she could count.

  “I want to tell you a story, lapsi. This is the first time you will be hearing it, because I have never told it to you before. In fact, I have never told it to anyone.”

  Clayton stopped fussing with the image on screen.

  He spun around in the chair to face her, and Tuula sat on the end of the bed.

  “I was so mad when your isoisä said he was going

  to Korea a second time. I called him many bad names.

  Kusipää and aasi. He held my face and kissed me and listened to all of my stupidity. He believed I was upset and didn’t mean any of the things I said. He was right—I didn’t mean what I said. I knew the situation. It was the time of the conscription—he had no choice. If he had

  refused, he would have been in serious paska. But he

  wanted to go back. He talked of work left unfinished and 154

  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  friends he had left behind. He reminded me that his isä had gone to war. His isoisä too. Honor and courage and

  fighting for the freedom of his country, his people. These were everything to him. I was in his heart, but being a

  soldier was in his soul. He had to go. And I was afraid.

  “When the officer came to the door to tell me he

  was gone, I did not itkeä or scream or any of this. There had been terrible thoughts in my mind all that week and

  pain in my heart. I had feared the worst, but the officer told me he had disappeared. Missing in action were his words. He told me he was sorry and that they were doing

  everything they could to find him and bring him home.

  He said other things too, but I stopped listening. I was too busy thinking my own thoughts. Actually, just one:

  I did not lose you to gunfire or bombs. I lost you to kohtalo.

  To destiny.

  “He was never found. He is still missing today.

  They did everything they could, and then they stopped

  looking. I wish I had been with him, lapsi. Just to see him.

  To hold his hand. To sing to him, ‘I’m Gonna Wash That

  Man Right Outa My Hair.’ To assure him he was a ripper

  of a hubby, just as Fat Beryl had foretold. To tell him love is the strongest force in all the world! More powerful

  than the mountains and the skies and the oceans! It is

  the source of all! To tell him our love will defeat destiny, in this world and the next.

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  “To cry with him before I cried alone.”

  Clayton swallowed, and tears welled in his eyes. Tuula

  smiled sadly. She retrieved her glasses and willed her

  slightly stooped frame to
standing, positioning herself in front of Clayton.

  “What?” he said.

  “We change places.”

  Clayton stood and offered the chair to his grand-

  mother. She sat, spun back around to the computer and

  started irritably stabbing the trackpad. With her other

  hand, she lit a cigarette.

  “What are you doing, Mummu?”

  Tuula took a long drag, then stubbed out in the soup.

  “I am waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “For you to help me with this electronic elukka.” She extracted a credit card from her pocket. “How to buy an

  airline ticket to Cuba is a story I cannot tell.”

  156

  Twenty-Nine

  Clayton knew he wouldn’t do anything on the plane.

  The movies would go unwatched. The food and drink

  cart would pass by without a request. He was more likely to find gold in the seat pocket than conversation with

  the person sitting beside him. Sleep? Impossible. No

  matter how tired he was ( tired was inadequate; some new made-up word was required to describe his exhaustion),

  there would be no rest on the flight, and certainly none when he reached Havana. Perhaps the capacity to sleep

  had abandoned him altogether. Clayton didn’t dwell.

  Letting go—the concept had new meaning these days.

  He watched the screen on the chair in front. The

  in-flight stat for kilometers traveled ticked over. Wiping his eyes, he stared at the number, commanding it to

  speed up.

  157

  Thirty

  Dressed in shorts and flip-flops, an unshaven Coach Dwyer was waiting at the José Martí International terminal. Much of his comb-over stood at attention. A crumpled sponsor’s T-shirt provided flimsy cover for his belly. His frayed appearance matched Clayton’s nerves.

  “Welcome to Havana, kid,” he said. “Pretty sure this

  place doesn’t need waking up.”

  “Has it started? Has she gone already?”

  Dwyer raised a reassuring hand. “Cyclone Blythe’s

  whipping up some wind, but she can’t blow out to sea till I’m back. Ash made sure that was clear.”

  “Does she know I’m here?”

  “No. I didn’t tell her, like you asked.” He scratched

  the stubble on his chin. “You hopin’ for an ambush?

  Last-ditch bid to talk her out of it?”

  Clayton shook his head. “I just want to see her.”

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  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  “Strangest thing.” Dwyer looked around the terminal,

  taking in the pockets of listless travelers. “I just want to see him. Those were the exact words she said to me in Denver.” He sucked air through his teeth. “There’s not a lot that makes sense in this world, kid, but it makes sense that you’re here. I’m pleased you didn’t walk away.”

  Clayton nodded. “Me too.”

  They moved quickly through the terminal, walking

  beneath the vast web of pipes and beams in the ceiling,

  passing under rows of flags from all corners of the globe.

  Clayton wondered how many people from all those

  nations were following Ash’s attempt at history. How

  many would reference it in their news? It could be every country on Earth, and Ashley Ray Drummond would still

  be unknown to them. The truth was so much more than

  their superficial stories could ever capture, could ever conceive. It was light years beyond anything made for tv or gone viral or dumbed down to one hundred and forty

  characters. It was timeless, like beauty and memory.

  Like love.

  Q

  The highway emptied into dimly lit suburban streets,

  then the city center. The air smelled of dust and tobacco and sweat. Strains of jazz music sauntered through the

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  crack in the driver-side window. Old-world buildings

  stood side by side, a watchful armada tracking the

  foreigners’ progress. Coach Dwyer, perhaps impelled

  by their presence, spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “Not

  long now.”

  “Okay.”

  They drove through Chinatown, passed by the Museo

  Nacional de Bellas Artes de La Habana. Within minutes

  the water was visible between the luxurious Vedado resi-

  dences, murky and foreboding, like spilled ink on the

  canvas of an expensive portrait. It was 4:30 am.

  “We’re gonna skip the hotel,” said the coach. “Head

  straight for the charter boat.”

  “Okay.”

  “You still got that confused feeling you mentioned

  back when we spoke?”

  Clayton hung a hand out of the open passenger

  window, catching the wind. “No. I just want to be with

  her. Whatever happens.”

  “Well…” Dwyer pointed and pulled the car in to the

  curb. “Whatever is about to happen.”

  Blythe was waiting.

  160

  Thirty-One

  “You went to pick up that boy? If I had known that,

  I would’ve made sure we got going before you came

  back.”

  Coach Dwyer glared as he pushed past her. “I’m sure

  your daughter feels differently.”

  “She doesn’t,” asserted Blythe. “But you got one

  thing right. My daughter. Mine. Flesh and blood. You really think she would take your side? Favor you over her mother? You give yourself too much credit.”

  “Settle down. Hey, kid? She’s this way.”

  “They broke up! And it was never going to work

  anyway. He didn’t belong in her lane.”

  “Blythe—”

  “You’ve wasted your time and money coming out

  here, ComicCon. Ash has already moved on. You need to

  do the same.”

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  D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H

  Coach Dwyer turned back, but Clayton held a hand

  up to stop him.

  “It’s fine, Coach,” he said, squaring up to face Blythe.

  “This ends now.”

  “You’re not going to hit her or anything, are you?”

  Clayton laughed. “No, Coach. I’m not.”

  Blythe looked rough. The light was poor, but not

  poor enough to hide the cracks in her stony facade.

  Her hair was bedraggled. Her gait was bowed and stiff.

  The harrowing glare that was both her weapon and her

  comfort had lost its authority—it now suggested tired-

  ness and frustration rather than intimidation. Her right eyelid had fluttered throughout the “my daughter” tirade.

  Dwyer wasn’t taking any chances. He circled back

  and leaned in close to Clayton’s ear. “If she comes at you,”

  he muttered, “just keep moving back. Let her wing at

  you. Those shoulder joints of hers are mush, and all the damage she’ll do will be to herself. Understand?”

  “Seriously, I’m not going to fight her,” Clayton

  insisted.

  “You might not want to, but I don’t know about her.

  She looks madder than a cut snake. I’ll be just down the road, where the boat’s docked. Any trouble, I’ll come

  running.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

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  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  Dwyer hesitated, then moved away. Before he was out

  of earshot, he had a parting message for Blythe. “Forget about the world. You should wake up to yourself.”

  Q

  Blythe cricked her neck after Coach Dwyer’s depa
rture.

  “As soon as we touch the beach at Fort Zachary

  Taylor, he’s fired.” She pointed to the water of the Canal de Entrada and out into the Atlantic. “So why are you here?”

  Clayton held her gaze. “To be here.”

  “You think she wants to see you?”

  “I know she does.”

  Blythe fell silent, eyes narrowed to slits. She had

  geared up for domination, for the final extraction of

  this little thorn in her side. But Clayton’s surety had

  thrown her. He watched the thoughts play out across her

  reddened face. Confusion, analysis, realization. A fire-

  work fizzed somewhere in the Vedado as Blythe brought

  a hand to her forehead.

  “You think you’re coming with us? You think you’ll be on the boat with us?”

  Clayton crossed his arms. “Yes.”

  Blythe looked around, pleading with an unseen

  crowd to back her up.

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  “I’ll tell you what,” she said, clapping her hands

  together. “How about instead of going on the boat you

  go somewhere else? Why don’t you go to hell? Or, better

  yet, back in time. Yes, go back in time and get in the car alongside Ash when she rolls it in the storm.”

  Maintaining a sure balance and an even gaze, Clayton

  took two paces forward, bringing him to within arm’s

  length of her.

  “I love Ash,” he said. “And that’s true whether you

  choose to accept it or not. I love your daughter. You and I have that in common.” He advanced another step and

  muted his voice. “I feel sorry for you.”

  “Is that a fact?” said Blythe through clenched teeth.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, well, do share. Why am I so deserving of your

  precious sympathy?”

  “Because you’ve lost her.” Clayton’s heart pounded

  against his chest. “You know that, don’t you? You’ve lost her for good.”

  Blythe staggered backward before regaining her

  footing. She glared at Clayton, an invisible fishhook

  tugging her upper lip. After several seconds the mask of loathing began to shift. Blythe ran her tongue around her teeth and the inside of her cheeks, gathering the avail-able saliva from her rapidly drying mouth. She pursed

  her lips and jerked her head forward, motioning to spit.

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  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  Her target did not flinch. Blythe dropped her head and