Dropping Like Spies - A Gallagher Girls Story

Chapter Eighteen

Sibiu, Romania is something of a time machine, revered for its preservation of medieval architacture and lively local lore.  There are cathedrals and synagogues with tall, sloped roofs and long, elegant overhangs.  Where there aren't points, there are arches, some of them crumbling apart after their centuries of service, but that majority still standing strong.  Sibiu is home to some of the oldest buildings and bridges in Romania, all of it protected by its historical towers, still holding their ground despite the fact that the southern cities hadn't posed as a threat in four decades' time.  Tourists still gathered at these three remaining towers, trying to take that step back in time.  People visited Sibiu just to catch a glimpse into the past.

When I first got to Sibiu, I slept.

In my defense, I pretty much slept for the whole trip, not just in Sibiu.  I slept on the first plane, I slept on the second, and then I slept in the car as Matt drove through Romania—or, well, I tried sleeping in the car.  It was just past high noon in this particular part of the world, so surely you can imagine just how unsuccessful that was.  

"You know," Matt said as I gave up and started to strech myself into consciousness.  "People travel from all over the world to see this town."

I curled back up, leaning against the window with the sun on my shoulders and thinking about how I should've taken one of Dad's blankets with me on this little road trip of ours.  I let what little warmth I had wash over me as I closed my eyes again.  "The rest of the world wasn't dragged out of bed at three in the morning."

"Three-thirty," he corrected with that distinct stop-being-such-a-baby tone that apparently all big brothers had been born with.  "It was three-thrity.  Of course, it would have been three, but someone decided she was going to camp out in Dad's room and throw off my whole plan—why were you in Dad's room, by the way?"

I listened to the hum of the motor.  The rumble of tire crossing cobblestone.  I wasn't even fully awake yet and already Matt was asking questions that I didn't have the answers to.  "It was just easier."

And it was easier.  I didin't know why.  I didn't know why it was easier to close my eyes when my father was right next to me or why the best night's sleep I'd gotten in days had been on two seperate planes with my stupid brother, but it was.  Without them, I just spent more time in the shadows, losing entire nights to my thoughts or, more frequently, to the absence of them.

Matt's next words were like a clap, smacking me from my sleep.  In just a few blinks, I remembered where I was again.  "How are you, Mags?"

"Tired," I spat, turning even farther onto my side.  The sun stained my eyelids with red and orange, so I gave up on the idea of drifting back into darkness.

"No, I mean really," he said, not in the mood for games.  "How are you?"

It was the same question I'd been asking the mirror for weeks.  Months, even.  But that's the thing about mirrors.  They only give you the answers you already know.

My eyes were open now, crust biting at every blink.  I fought against the light of day, making out the blurs of the famous wrought iron bridges and the universally admired chruches as it all zoomed by.  Matt slowed as he turned through the residential streets, all of the homes tall and redheaded and painted with charming pastilles that were chipping away with time.  I couldn't help thinking that I knew what it felt like to stand firm for all of those centuries, fighting against the storms or shifts or even gravity itself, and I had to wonder how long it would be before I, too, started to chip away.  "Tired," I answered again, but this time the words weren't much more than a whisper.

Matt squeezed the car into an empty spot along the curb.  "Yeah," he said quietly, turning the key.  The hum of the engine stopped, leaving an emptiness in the air.  "Me too."