Voices

by R.E. Rowe

  One particular book catches my attention. It’s written by Emily Dickinson and entitled, Poems. When I pull the book out, I notice a silver-gray plate built into the mortared stonewall. I pull a few other books off the shelf to get a better look.

  The metallic plate is the size of a large picture. A numeric dial and silver hand lever are fixed in the middle. It’s a safe. But why would there be a hidden safe in an old storm shelter?

  I twist the lever to open it, but it doesn’t budge. Obviously, I need a combination, like I use for my school locker.

  I step back and peer at the built-in safe, as if the combination might magically pop into my mind. Of course, I know that’s ridiculous. I have no idea what it could be. Not even a guess. I try moving the lever back and forth.

  It doesn’t move.

  I gaze at the shelves and continue searching the cabinets below the bookshelves. The cabinets are loaded with stacks of plates, empty crystal decanters, and serving bowls. The contents seem to be a haphazard mix of household items from the 1890’s.

  Inside another cabinet is an empty leather satchel, a stack of old Franklinville Journal newspapers from the 1890’s, and more of Thomas’s journals. I don’t find anything related to a safe combination.

  I return to the desk.

  Everything I find in its drawers appear to belong to Thomas. Love letters to Anna, old pencils, stamps, and inventory files on cattle, horses, chickens, and pigs—nothing about Wesley or a combination. The shelter must have become Thomas’s private storage shelter after Wesley died.

  I peer up the ladder at the opening. There’s still no sign of Reizo. He’s way late. I check my cell phone. No missed calls. I let out a huff and continue searching.

  After two more hours, Reizo still hasn’t arrived. He’s blown me off. I feel like a fool. He told me he’d be here. Why’d I get my hopes up? I’m so stupid.

  Just as I’m ready to leave, the back of one of the drawers catches my eye. The wood backing appears to be partially broken. When I push on it, the wood easily splinters and breaks inward.

  Behind the broken drawer backing, there’s a space. I pull the pieces of broken wood out and see a small, rolled up piece of paper tied with a piece of rough twine. I take off the twine, unroll the paper, and read it:

  FOUR STOPS

  Turn dial three times left to 51

  Turn two times right to 22

  Turn one times left to 13

  Turn right to 0

  -Wesley R.

  It’s sort of like my school locker combination, except for the extra turning. Maybe that’s how old locks worked back in the 1800’s. I rotate the dial, but mess up a couple of times until I manage to stop on each of the numbers written on the paper after turning the dial the number of times it says. Finally, I turn the dial right to the number zero and twist the handle.

  Still nothing.

  I jiggle it and twist again.

  Bingo! It opens.

  Inside the safe, five tall stacks of gold coins are on top of an empty leather pouch and loose papers. The top paper is a letter from Wesley:

  To the finder of these papers, take this money and run to the feds. I have lost my battle with the dishonorable Mr. Sarov. The Russian immigrant is buying up all the land he can grab. The man is determined like a prized bull to take my land, my home, and most probably my life. He convinced Franklinville’s only judge that yours truly is insane. But I am sane! I am sure General is behind this entire mess.

  My Last Will and Testament is attached to this note. Thomas and my best friend Lester are the beneficiaries. Two trusted lawyers in the township signed as witnesses attesting to my sanity. When both men were murdered yesterday, I decided to pen this here note.

  General will stop at nothing to keep the secrets I know buried. People are saying a faulty carriage wheel shattered when it ran into a deep hole in the road and killed the men. But that is a lie.

  Signed, Wesley Rush.

  I can’t believe it. Could Sarov be related to Zeke Sarov from school? And who is General? My heart pounds as I flip through the papers. Page after page of lists: cattle, horses, chickens, the home, the barns, property, stocks, railroad bonds, and maps with markings covering a huge area of land in Franklin County.

  Does that mean all the property goes to Reizo? To my uncle? To my parents? To me? I need to show the papers to Mom. She’ll know what to do.

  I stuff the money into the pouch and use the leather satchel I found in the cabinet to hold the documents, the Emily Dickinson book of poems, and the pouch of gold coins. I switch off Uncle’s LED lantern and leave it behind, then climb up the ladder. It takes both hands to close the hatch.

  Above the shelter, there’s still no sign of Reizo. I feel worse than a fool. He totally blew me off.

  I shouldn’t care that I told him I’d keep the place secret until he goes through it. But I do care. I let out a frustrated huff and cover up the entrance with the large bush Reizo had broken off. I’ll keep my word, even if he’s a forgetful jerk.

  Ow. My shoulder joint burns. A pain starts in my shoulder and moves to my chest. I decide to go back to Uncle’s house and lie down, but hesitate. If I don’t tell Mom about the shelter, how will I explain the papers and money?

  I look at the muddy bank and know how to explain it. I rub mud all over the satchel so it looks like it’s been buried for a hundred-and-fifty years. It takes a few minutes, but it works. The mud and pond muck make the outside of the satchel look old. I’ll tell Mom I found the satchel buried near the pond.

  Before heading to Uncle’s house, I sit down to catch my breath. A scary thought comes to mind. What if Reizo went through with his plan? Oh God.

  A sweat breaks out on my forehead and my heart sprints hurdles.

  “No, Reizo. No,” I mutter, using pond water to wash the muck off my hands.

  Then a familiar voice interrupts my train of tragic thoughts.

  “Hey, Ames. Sorry I’m late,” says Reizo.

  Aimee’s black hair shimmers in the mid-day sun. She splashes her hands in the pond and rubs them together.

  “That’s probably not sanitary,” I say with a little too much confidence, keeping one hand behind my back.

  She shakes her head and scowls. Clearly my lame attempt at coolness isn’t working.

  “I’m sorry for being late,” I say.

  Aimee grabs a dirty leather bag, but still doesn’t respond. Her movements are jerky and she avoids making eye contact with me.

  Shit. She’s really pissed.

  “What’s that?” I ask, hoping it will snap her out of the funk.

  She ignores me.

  I remove the hand from behind my back and stick out the wildflowers I’d picked on the way over. “Ames. I’m really sorry for being late. Really. I—”

  Her eyes relax and soften, but she still isn’t smiling. “I’m really sorry,” I whisper.

  Aimee takes the flowers and sniffs. She hands me a muddy old leather bag. “I was worried. I thought you’d either blown me off.” She huffs. “Or you know . . . your plan.”

  I stutter at first, and then say, “I’m sorry. I won’t—I wouldn’t. I, um, put the pills back where they belong.”

  “Good.” She searches my eyes. “So you spoke to your mom?”

  I hesitate. “No. Not yet. But I will.”

  Her eyes probe deeper. “You promise?”

  I nod slowly. “I will, honest . . . I was late because my mom left me a note this morning. She gave me a list of maintenance things to do: a messed up toilet, burned out lights, stuff like that. The stupid apartment maintenance dude takes forever. And—”

  Aimee smirks. “Toilet?” She rubs her shoulder.

  I grin and try to get Ames to smile. “It wouldn’t flush. Seriously, not pretty.” I peer at the leather satchel. “What’s in the old bag?”

  “You’re never going to believe—” Her face muscles abruptly tighten. She grabs her shoulder, then drops the bag and falls to her knees.
Tears trickle down both of her cheeks.

  Aimee doesn’t have to tell me what’s happening. I’d been through it before with her. “I’m taking you to your uncle’s place. Now.”

  I grab the leather bag and throw it over one shoulder, cradle her in my arms, then take off jogging as fast as I can manage. “Breathe, Ames. Breathe.”

  When her breathing turns rapid, I know she’s worse than the last time.

  My jog turns to a sprint.

  Chest Pain. Burning. Bouncing. Light fading. I can’t focus.

  I twist and turn, struggling, but I’m unable to move more than an inch. Hands are on me, pushing me down. My head pushed back. I try to speak, but gag. I start to throw up, but stop—blurry white blobs around me.

  I can’t focus.

  I try to scream, but it comes out like a muffled drain releasing after being clogged. Something is stuck in my arm.

  I hear shouting.

  I hear Mom. “Aimee dear, deep breaths. They’re going to insert something into your heart to help you. Try and relax. Everything will be fine. It’s a simple procedure.”

  Her voice calms me.

  A woman I don’t recognize tells me to count down from ten.

  I mumble a countdown inside my head, but nothing comes out of my mouth. Ten . . . nine...

  My body suddenly feels warm. Eight...

  The warmth is replaced by calm. I’m floating. Seven—

  The noises around me transform into a hum.

  Whiteness fades to black.

  chapter thirty

  After everything she’s been through, her face still gives off a warm glow. I love that about her.

  Kind. Beautiful. Caring.

  I watch Aimee sleep peacefully from the chair next to her ugly white hospital bed.

  “You’re staring,” says Honesti.

  “They should tie you to the bed,” says Bouncer. “You monster.”

  “Please stop,” says Honesti. “Just stop it.”

  “Can I get you something?” whispers Mrs. De Lucca.

  My mindless gaze focuses on Aimee’s mother. “Sorry?”

  Mrs. De Lucca raises her voice slightly and peers at her cell phone as if she’s reading a secret message. “Can I get you something from the cafeteria?” There’s a glint of respect in her eyes, sort of an I-owe-you look. It’s way better than the no-way-in-hell-a-long-haired-kid-is-going-to-take-my-daughter-out look I would have received.

  “No thanks, Mrs. De Lucca.”

  “I’ll be back in a few,” she says, heading out the hospital room door.

  During the previous couple of days, I’d gotten to know Aimee’s mom. She told my mom I’m a hero, which is an exaggeration. But I’m not going to argue. Both of our mom’s agreed I could stay in Aimee’s hospital room once the medical staff moved her out of ICU. Saving Aimee twice gives me perks.

  “You gonna stare all day?” asks Bouncer, making a raspberry sound.

  “Cut it out,” says Honesti. “Not now.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Shut your trap.”

  “Huh?” Aimee asks in a guttural voice. “Reiz?”

  I jump out of my chair and stand beside her bed.

  “They moved me?” she asks.

  I pick up a plastic cup of water and hand it to her. “Yeah, you’re out of ICU. You’re in a private room now. Pretty sweet. It’s twice as big as my room in our apartment. The doctors say you’re going to be fine.”

  She presses on the middle of her chest bone. “I thought I was going into surgery?”

  “They were going to operate, but the doctors decided to wait. Your mom told me they inserted something called a stent.”

  “A stent?” She touches the bandage on her arm and wrinkles her nose.

  “Rotor rooter,” says Bouncer, laughing. He makes a sound like a low-pitched drill.

  Jerk.

  “Yeah, it’s a wire-mesh thing that opens up a heart artery. I think they put it in through an artery in your arm, but you should ask your mom. How you feeling?”

  Aimee forces a half smile. “Okay, I guess. A little groggy . . . actually, I feel better than I did.” She moves her arm in a rotating motion. “No more pains in my shoulder.” She yawns and attempts to fix her hair.

  “Here, let me.” I use my fingers like a comb to straighten out her part and smooth her bangs into place.

  “So you’re a hair dresser now?” asks Bouncer. “Who knew?”

  “She is pretty,” says Honesti. “I think combing her hair is so cute.”

  I stare at Aimee, tuning out the voices rambling between my ears. The more I concentrate, the more the two voices fade away.

  Aimee lies back. She peers at the fresh wildflowers I’d put into a half-full glass of water next to the painted pond pictures I’d brought her. She forces a smile. “Sorry. Not what I’d imagined for a first date away from the pond.”

  “True. A movie at the Cinemax and some chick-a-doo B-B-Q would have been better,” I say and grin, holding her hand. “The food here sucks. But there’s this girl who, well, is pretty hot and I wanted to be the first person she saw when she woke up out of ICU.”

  “Gag me, I’m going to barf!” Bouncer yells.

  “Knock it off!” Honesti shouts, adding to the noise in my head. She sounds louder than Bouncer.

  I stare at Aimee’s glistening eyes and dream of a sandy beach. I imagine that Bouncer’s rants and Honesti’s taunts are soothing waves along a sandy beach. Honesti’s screams become a sea gull screeching overhead. I feel warm sunshine on my face and imagine Bouncer’s nonsensical words to be laughter from little kids playing on the beach.

  Aimee raises her voice and sits up. “Reizo, are you okay?”

  “Sorry. What’d you say?”

  She rolls her eyes and moves over, then pats the bed. “Sit with me.”

  I hesitate and struggle to keep the voices in the background. It’s worse than trying to watch multiple television programs at the same time.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  I nod and rub my face. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired I guess.”

  She pats the bed again.

  I glance out the hospital room door, where doctors and nurses run relay races. “On the bed?”

  “No, on the floor, silly.”

  I climb onto the bed. “I guess you’re feeling better.”

  “Way better,” she says.

  We sit side-by-side, awkwardly looking forward at nothing specific. The hospital room is about as basic as it comes. White walls, medical equipment, a television at the top of the far wall, and a small bathroom in the corner.

  “I want you closer,” she whispers.

  I move closer and hold her hand without saying a word. A moment passes as our hands tighten and untighten, sending electric tingles through my veins. I never want to let go of her.

  I finally break the silence. “Did you see your Grams again?”

  The moment I finished asking the question, I wanted to take it back. Stupid. “Sorry,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “No. It’s okay.” Aimee lets out a nervous chuckle. “Not this time. I think the next time I see her, I’ll be staying for good.”

  She means die? No way. I’m not about to let that happen to her. I clear my throat. “The doctor said it was a close call.”

  Aimee turns to me with a sparkle in her eye. “So Michelangelo superman, you carried me to my uncle’s house again?”

  I laugh half-heartedly. “Michelangelo superman? Nah, more like package delivery guy.”

  Aimee smiles, then a crease forms across her forehead. “It hurt, but not like my relay race disaster when I saw Grams.” She squeezes my hand, then loosens it.

  As I try to think of something cool to say, I can’t help but wonder more about her grandmother. Did Ames really talk to a dead person? It’s none of my business, but I want to know.

  “So what was it like? I mean, really like.”

  Her face twitches.

  Why i
s she suddenly nervous? “You said it was a place of total joy and love, right?”

  She sighs. “It was that and more.”

  I notice her eyes well up with tears. Oh hell. I’ve done it again. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “It’s okay, really. It’s just hard to put into words. I think I felt pure love. Like a warm fuzzy blanket was wrapped around me a million times...”

  I grab a tissue from the small table next to the bed and dry her cheeks with it.

  “I felt so much love.”

  “Why the tears?”

  She softens her voice to a whisper. “You don’t understand. It was surreal. It was like I remembered who I really was for the first time in my life. The real me. I guess I felt my soul. Does that sound ridiculous?”

  I shake my head. “No, not at all.” I try to make sense out of her words, but I don’t really know what she means. She’s more emotional than I’d ever seen her.

  “What do you mean by the real you? That sounds—”

  “Crazy?”

  “No, of course not—”

  “That’s exactly why I’ve never told anyone,” she says.

  I get it. If I ever told a stranger I hear voices inside my head, the stranger would instantly tag me as crazy.

  “Sorry I didn’t—I mean, it sounds intense to me. I just don’t totally understand—”

  “What part? How I felt?”

  “No, no. Not that part. I get it was an emotional experience for you. Something that really touched you.” I take in a long breath, trying to pick the right words. “So assume everything you experienced was real. No question. It really happened.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If it’s so good there, why do people have to suffer, feel pain, go hungry, hear freaking voices in our heads here? Do you see what I mean?”

  She squeezes my hand.

  I realize my voice is louder than it should be. I feel a little frustration, but not with Aimee. It’s just that the logic makes no sense.

  I whisper, “What’s the point of feeling all the bad stuff here when something so awesome is...” I point upward. “There? You know, with your grandmother.”

  Aimee releases my hand and adjusts herself. She wipes her face and relaxes her shoulders. “Yeah, I know what you’re saying. It’s a good question, which is why I asked her.”

  I sit up straight. “Huh? You asked your grandmother?”

  She nods yes. “It was the part I swore to myself I’d never talk about . . . to anyone. I never thought someone I cared about would actually ask me about it.”