by Bre Hall
Ren grumbled and slumped off toward the staircase. She called back, “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?” Grams asked.
“The sandwich.”
“It’s not even what I wanted,” Grams said. “And it’s dry.”
“She’s hopeless,” Ren muttered as she reached the top of the steps.
She walked to her room and grabbed the tin off her bedside table. She rushed outside, jumped on her bike, and pedaled the back way to the Johnson House, just in case she ran into Alfie downtown, or worse, the creepy woman she’d met at Roast the day before.
The sky was the Wynn bowling alley on a weekend night, strike after strike after strike of thunder, rumbling louder with ever advancing rotation of her bicycle tires. As she climbed the steps to the front door at Peter’s, the storm was practically on top of her, grumbling so loudly is shook the already-weak porch. She wondered if the abandoned house could hold up in yet another Kansas thunderstorm or if it would finally crumble to the ground.
Peter opened the door before she could even knock. As soon as she saw his face, she remembered their stolen kisses from the night before. Her heart pitter-pattered like the rain that was sure to accompany the storm.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, shaking the tea tin. “I had to go back for this, but when I got there, I ran into the farmhand my dad hired. And then my grandma forced me to feed her, even though I kept telling her I had to be somewhere. But I’m here, finally, so let’s do this.”
She took a step toward the door, but Peter caught her by the waist and pulled her in for a quick, knee-numbing kiss. It was so unexpected that when Peter pulled away, she had to remind herself to breathe.
Dizzily, she said, “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
“Oh, when you said let’s do this, you meant the experiments,” Peter said.
“But the kiss wasn’t bad.”
Peter wove his fingers through hers and led her into the kitchen. As soon as he let go, she kicked off her boots and plopped into one of the chairs. Peter pulled down two mugs from a cabinet and grabbed a steaming French press from the countertop near the sink. He poured a thick stream of coffee into each mug.
“Did you make coffee just for me?”
“Don’t think too much about it,” Peter said, batting his hand through the air between them. “Cream or sugar?”
“Black,” she said, shrugging out of her jean jacket. She re-rolled the sleeves of her graphic tee that had Bach’s likeness screen-printed onto it. “Please.”
Peter set the mugs onto the table and smiled at her shirt. “The original band t-shirt?”
“I thought you might like it,” she said.
“I do,” he said. “The sunglasses and VW necklace are a nice addition to Bach’s sophisticated look.”
She blushed. “I found it at a thrift store in Adelphia. He’s supposed to be a Beastie Boys fan.”
“I’m sure he would have been,” Peter said, sipping his coffee. “Given the chance, of course.”
“That could be said for most people, I think.”
A flash of lightning lit up the kitchen in a white-hot blaze. It was followed by a lion roar of thunder. She slid the tea tin onto the table and uncapped it.
“Should we get started?” she asked.
“Be my guest.”
She reached into the tin, pressed her index finger to the smooth edge of Lizzie’s tooth, and fell quickly through the chasm, leaving the thunder, lightning, and Peter behind, trading it all for early twentieth-century Dublin at night. The streetlamps flickered orange ribbons of light across the reflective black surface of the River Liffey as Lizzie and Michael swayed, fingers laced together, beside it. Mary and Eamon skipped along a few feet ahead. Eamon’s arm was around Mary’s waist and every few steps he would perk up on his toes and peck a kiss on Mary’s rosy cheek.
They had spent hours at the Palace Bar, twirling close to one another on the dance floor, sharing hopeful glances over the lips of their pint and gin glasses as they caught their breath near the bar. When the place had closed, it had been Michael who suggested a walk along the Liffey, out in the quiet of the night, in the supple breeze, beneath the dark, cloud-covered sky.
“Where does a high-flying girl like you live anyway?” Michael asked. “Rathmines?”
Lizzie giggled, her mind fuzzy. Partly from the drinks and partly because Michael was so close to her. She knew in a dress like the one she’d stolen from the Doherty girl she could get away with saying she was from any posh place. But she liked Michael. Now more than ever. She didn’t want to lie to him.
“No,” she said. “I’m not from Rathmines.”
“Monkstown, then?”
She turned slightly away from him as she said, “Henrietta Street.”
There was a long pause, and then, finally, Michael asked, “In the tenements?”
“Do you not fancy me now that you know I’m not wealthy?”
“Can’t stand the sight of ye,” Michael said.
Lizzie let go of his hand and took a step away from him. “Is that so?”
“Go on, I’m only jokin’,” Michael said, coming up behind her and wrapping both arms around her shoulders. They stopped and looked out over the river. “Have a bit of a laugh, will you?”
Lizzie shook her head, a smile sliding onto her cheeks. “You better not waste any more time on me now that you know.”
“You’re mad,” Michael whispered, and kissed her cheek.
She looked up at him. “You know, I’ve heard that before.”
Michael slapped a kiss on her mouth, then grabbed her hand again and started moving. He nodded to Mary and Eamon, who were balancing on the edge of the quay wall. “We better not let them out of our sights. They’re both drunker than the old man who lives in the room beside mine.”
“Your neighbor?” Lizzie asked.
“My father,” he said, then chuckled. They walked on for a moment, listening to the breeze funnel through the clusters of tall buildings on either side of them. Michael stopped suddenly. Spun her toward him, an act that stole her oxygen. “I’ve got something to ask you.”
“Is it a serious something?” Lizzie tilted her chin toward his face.
“If you say you’re not wealthy,” he said, brushing her sleeve with the back of his hand, “Then where’d you get a dress as fancy as this?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said, and smirked.
“I would, actually,” he said.
“A woman never reveals her secrets,” she whispered, then stood on her tip toes. Michael bent down, shrinking the space between them, and kissed her. All of those afternoons taking the long way home from work just to get a glimpse of the emerald eyed laborer near the river had finally paid off. How many times had she dreamed of kissing him?
She opened her eyes and caught a glimpse of the thin spindles of the docked ships’ masts, wavering in the golden light. She imagined, briefly, boarding one of the boats with Michael by her side and sailing away to America. To start life anew in a place that didn’t know who she was. Where she could wear a dress like the one she’d robbed from the Doherty girl every day and not be asked a thing about it.
Mary’s squeal brought Lizzie back to reality. She pulled away from Michael and snapped her attention to her friend. Eamon had a hold of Mary’s hand as she leaned far over the mooring near one of the ships. One of Mary’s legs was planted on the stone wall while the other was lifted high in the air, her free arm raised in the same fashion. Mary laughed and swung forward, using Eamon as a pivot point, but as she was stepping back onto the quay, her dress caught beneath her foot and she slipped off the edge. She dropped off the wall, jerking Eamon down to a crouch. He kept a hold of her, his strong arms flexing from the weight of Mary, who dangled over the river.
“Shit,” Lizzie muttered and ran to the edge of the wall. Then, Michael was there beside her, helping Eamon haul Mary back onto the quay. Mary stumbled forward, clutching her ches
t, and laughing uncontrollably. Lizzie smacked Mary’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “You could have died, Mary Elizabeth Keogh. Be more careful.”
“I’m grand, Lizzie,” Mary said, patting both Michael and Eamon on the arm. “I’ve got these strong rescuers nearby.”
“Keep an eye on her,” Michael said to Eamon.
“She’s wild, this one,” Eamon said.
“Not as wild as good ole Liz, here,” Mary said. She wrapped an arm tightly around Lizzie’s neck and rocked Lizzie back and forth. Partly for sport and partly because Mary was so drunk, she couldn’t stand still.
“I better get her home,” Lizzie said.
“I’ll walk with you,” Michael said.
Eamon groaned and stepped away from the group. He then proceeded to vomit over the newly-placed pavement.
“Maybe you should help your friend,” Lizzie said as she started to half-walk, half-carry Mary back in the direction they’d come from.
“Can I see you tomorrow?” Michael asked.
“Tomorrow night,” she said. She’d have to sneak out of the house once everyone was asleep. Her mother wouldn’t approve of her chasing men around the city, especially not ones who were five years older than her. “I’ll meet you on Sackville Street around half nine?”
“I want to come along,” slurred Mary. “I want an adventure.”
Lizzie rolled her eyes, but Michael simply laughed. His eyes flicked to Eamon, who was stumbling away from the group. Michael grabbed Eamon’s shoulder. “If Eamon’s not too hungover, I’ll bring him along to keep Mary company.”
“That’ll be grand,” Lizzie said. Mary squeezed her neck tighter and started dragging her back in the direction they had come. Without another word, Lizzie turned away with Mary. Both Lizzie’s head and heart were buzzing. She felt alive. Or lost in a dream. She hoped it was the first one.
Mary rested her head on Lizzie’s shoulders as they stumbled toward the bridge. “How did the wooing go?”
“All good until someone got a little too drunk,” Lizzie said.
“Who?” Mary asked.
“Come on,” Lizzie said, hoisting Mary a little bit more upright. “I’ll tell you all about it when you’re sober.”
The Dublin night swirled into a golden haze and Ren returned to her body. She opened her good eye and took in Peter’s kitchen. He sat across the table from her, eyes wide and trained on the coffee mugs, the tea tin, and his cigarette case, all floating a few inches off the Formica table top.
“Is that?” she asked, watching the objects bob slightly in the air.
“You,” he said.
“But I haven’t seen her die yet,” she said.
“I don’t think that’s why,” he said. “I think…”
“What?” she asked.
He grabbed his cigarette case out of the air, pulled one out, and lit it. He exhaled a plume of smoke. “I think each time you regress your soul is strengthening.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re powerful,” Peter said, his voice quiet. She had to strain to hear him. “More powerful than I hoped.”
“You hoped I wouldn’t be this powerful? Why not?”
Peter scratched his eyebrow. Clenched his eyes shut. Sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“But it’s what you said.”
“I meant you’re more powerful than I expected,” Peter said. “More so than I’d anticipated.”
“But that’s not a good thing?”
He smiled at her, but it disappeared quickly. She searched his eyes, his face, for any kind of genuine pleasure that the experiments were working. Her blood stilled. His lips were set in a hard line, his eyes almost piercing.
“It’s a great thing,” he said, and she really wanted to believe him.
chapter
18
A CLAP OF THUNDER RIGHT overhead made Ren jump. The tin, the mugs, the case, they all crashed onto the table, the coffee spilling everywhere. Peter hopped to his feet and threw a dishtowel over the top of the mess. As he cleaned up the liquid, Ren set the tin upright and stared at it, brows bowed inward. Focusing.
“What are you doing?” Peter asked.
“Shh,” she said, as she tightened her gaze on the tin.
“Are you trying to make the tin levitate?” he asked.
“Does it scare you?” Her nose was scrunched, moving closer to the tea tin with every breath.
“The look on your face is freaking me out,” he said. “Stop.”
She broke her concentration. “Why? I want to learn to control it.”
“You don’t need to know how to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he said.
“What’s the point of having abilities if I’m never going to use them?”
“It’s not safe,” he said. “If anyone saw you trying to move things with your mind...”
“Whatever,” she said, her voice sharp.
“I’m serious.” He sat down beside her. “Promise me.”
“No one’s going to see me in this old house anyway,” she said, not looking at him.
He took her hand in his. Rubbed circles into her palm with his thumb. She could feel her hard shell softening, letting him in again. He squeezed her hand. She looked up at him. “Promise you won’t try to use your abilities, Ren.”
She gazed into his dark eyes. His jaw was tight. Eyes pinched. Nostrils slightly flared. He looked graveyard-serious. Maybe there was more to it than him not wanting her to use her abilities just for the risk of someone seeing. More she didn’t know. More she couldn’t understand. Not yet. She felt every last bit of tension inside her bones dissipate. She had to trust him. She did trust him.
“Okay.” Her words were buttercream frosting. “I promise.”
“Good.” He stood up, kissed her forehead, and cleared away the mug that had fallen when the thunder scared it out of the air. He set it in the bottom of the sink.
“What time is it?” Ren squinted out the window, the glass shimmering in raindrops that were falling from a black sky. She wasn’t sure if it was dark because of the storm or because of the time. She peeked at the clocks on the wall behind her. One showed that it was three fifteen and another ten twenty-two.
“Don’t rely on those. They’re strictly for hiding purposes.” Peter reached into the front pocket of his jeans. He pulled out the watch she had given to him and clicked it open. “Five o’clock. Why? Do you want to do another regression?”
“We could just hang out,” she said.
“Hang out?”
“Yeah,” she said, pulling her feet into the chair, “You know, talk, play a card game, get up to no good.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “Card game? Like go-fish?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Something to kill the time. What do you do when I’m not here?”
Peter’s gaze swept across the kitchen, then shot over her head and down the hallway. His shoulders rose and fell, an I-dunno kind of gesture. “Not a whole lot. I listen to the radio—the channels out here in the sticks are awful by the way; nothing but Christian Rock and Country—and I look around the house. Sift through all the belongings the family must have left behind.”
“The Johnsons,” Ren said. She had just assumed he’d known about the past residents of his new abode.
“Yeah, them,” Peter said. “I try to figure out their story.”
“Murdered.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “Really? Hmm.”
“What?”
“I don’t get that vibe,” he said.
“It’s not a vibe,” Ren said, leaning forward. “It’s a fact.”
“Trust me,” Peter said. “I’ve been around long enough to pick up on the distinct energies of places. Buildings soak feelings into their walls. Like sponges. There was definitely some tension surrounding the family, but no death, no murder.”
“You sound like Grams,” Ren said. “She’s always going on about auras an
d energy. Omens and shit.”
“It’s not just the feeling.” Peter stalked into the hallway. “Put your boots on and follow me.”
Ren spun in her chair and tugged her combat boots back on. She scurried after him, catching up just as he turned into what was once the living room. Plaster ceiling lay in chunks and shards all around them. A stand-up lamp was overturned on a mustard-colored rocking chair in the corner. A crumbling brick fireplace lay dismantled all along the far wall. In the center of the room, a single chair was cleared, a copy of the Wichita Eagle draped over its arm.
“What do you want to show me?” Ren folded her arms over her chest and twirled slowly around the room. “A mess?”
Peter stopped in front of the window, lace curtains pulled back, and bent down to pick up a stack of papers piled neatly near it on the floor.
“Bank statements belonging to Mr. Oliver Johnson.” Peter thumbed through the documents, page by page, pointing to dates here and names there. “Look at this. Loan. Loan. Loan. Default. Default. Bounced check. It just goes on. The man was drowning in debt.”
“What does this prove?” Ren asked. “Just because he owed a lot of money doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have murdered his wife and child before offing himself. In fact, it just supports that theory even more.”
Peter latched onto her wrist and pulled her back across the living room. When they started up the main staircase, leaning slightly to the right, his fingers moved down to weave with hers. She could feel her pulse in her palm, knocking on his hand.
“Where are we going now?” she asked, but she didn’t care. Whenever she fell into the past, she had to leave Peter behind. Even though rummaging through an abandoned house wasn’t exactly what she had in mind when she said they should hang out, at least she was coherent for it, present.
“You need to see more.” Peter guided her up the stairs, buried in fallen plaster and sheetrock, and into the second-floor hallway.
Three doors lined the corridor. The bedrooms. Two on the right, one on the left. Peter dragged her into the left one, the largest, it seemed, of the rooms. Dresses, overalls, nightgowns, books, smashed perfume bottles, tattered shoes. Everything that was once kept nice, neat, and tucked away was strewn across the floorboards. Even the mattress was overturned, the metal bedframe dented in several places.
