Forbidden

by Lori Adams

  “How about some candid photos capturing Haven Hurst Halloween charm?” she suggests.

  “I’m on it.”

  *

  The town square is haunted by the season, a modern rendition of Sleepy Hollow. The grass in the park is shriveled, and the trees have decomposed into rigor mortis yellow, plasma red, and pumpkin gut orange. Spider webs are stretched over nooks and crannies, and the pumpkin patch is a garden of decapitated heads. The back end of a witch on a broomstick is smashed into the Aunt Tik furniture store. A row of jack-o’-lanterns in neon wigs are puking their pumpkin seed guts out in the window of the Cut ’N Dye hair salon. And a bloody zombie in an Armani suit is hanging by the necktie in Viktor Vogue’s Haberdashery.

  Across the square is the Hickory Stick, whose display window features a scarecrow in a flannel shirt and jeans. But his back is to the window and his jeans have been pulled down and two bright orange pumpkin cheeks are mooning the square. I heard Mayor Jones is on the warpath, so I raise my camera and document Cheeky before the town council votes to remove him, or at least forces somebody to pull up his pants.

  When my work is complete, there is nothing left to do but go home.

  *

  The house is dark and cold. It’s chilly out but Dad hasn’t started a fire, so I do. I load a few dry logs, shove crumpled newspaper beneath the grate, and light it. I watch it glow and spread while absently petting Sundance. The house is too quiet, so I kick off my shoes and pad down the hallway to Dad’s office.

  The room is dark but for a circle of pale light from Dad’s decrepit old desk lamp. He has fallen asleep on a stack of books but jerks awake when Sundance barrels in. Dad is a wreck with Einstein hair and a dungeon tan. Worry has gnawed him to the bone. He is noticeably flustered and starts thumping books shut as I approach.

  “Wattaya up to?” I fake a cheerful tone and perch my hip on his desk. Maybe if I lead by example, Dad will follow.

  He makes a show of hiding his work. “Oh, nothing.”

  “You going to the rally tonight?”

  “What? No. That’s not for me.”

  “Let’s go, Dad. It’ll be fun. You haven’t been out in days.” I try to catch his eye but he won’t look up.

  “I go to the library,” he mumbles halfheartedly. He is systematically touching his things and organizing nothing.

  My stomach hurts deep in the pit, and my dangling foot takes on a nervous shake. “Dad, what’s wrong?”

  He runs a hand through his unruly hair, and his lips move but nothing comes out. It’s like he’s making an imaginary list in his head. I want to cry but steel myself against the urge.

  “What’s this?” I reach for a notebook, and he snatches it away.

  “I told you! I’m researching for a book!”

  This is Dad’s excuse for shutting himself away. So now he is a writer of books. Hmm …

  Since neither of us is going out, Dad suggests we have dinner in front of the TV, and then he hastily ushers me out of the office. I decide I’ve had enough of his odd behavior; there is snooping to be done. So after we devour leftover lasagna and a loaf of French bread and watch our fill of various sporting events, I yawn and stretch with fake fatigue. I tell Dad that I’m off to the bathtub and then to bed. I’ll see him in the morning.

  *

  It’s an old claw-foot tub that makes for a swimming pool when filled, and I bob for a good thirty minutes to ensure that Dad has gone to bed. Then I slip into flannel pajamas and a tank top, and tiptoe across the landing. I look and listen. All dark. All quiet. I creep downstairs like a burglar in my own home. Dad never locks his office so I try the door. It’s locked. Damn! I trudge to the kitchen and rummage through the junk drawer in search of appropriate sleuthing devices to jimmy a lock. I settle for a flat-head screwdriver and a nail file.

  Several attempts later, the antique lock gives way with a rusty click. A strange mix of excitement and guilt winds through me as I creep inside.

  The desk is a study in eyesore and olfactory offenses: cluttered books and notepads, leftover sandwich stubs and coffee dregs. I twitch my nose and push the leftovers aside. There are seven books in all, four concerning dreams and the power of the subconscious, two examining various cultural theories on the afterlife, and the last book titled The History of Hell.

  “What the—” I sink into Dad’s chair and flip through a spiral notebook. It’s Dad’s handwriting but with scribbles of horrific descriptions, dark and evil. Margins are filled with images of demonic creatures writhing in a fiery pit, serpent heads, flaming tongues. The next page is more of the same, and the next, and the next. Recent dates label them, and I get the distinct feeling these aren’t notes from books but graphic depictions of Dad’s nightmares. I’ve heard the screams, heard him pacing the floor at all hours.

  Each notebook is mounted with gruesome images, and their vileness is escalating. The last page is a giant funnel dividing into layers that ends in a fine point filled with black ink. The layers are marked by different colors and labeled: PLEADING, SYMPATHY, BARGAINING, SACRIFICE. All around are the words SIN! RETRIBUTION! JUDGMENT! REPENT! raining down like drops of fire.

  I can see the torment in his scrawl, the jagged edge of letters, the uncertainty of lines, the indentation that shoves and forces and buries words into the paper. It is fear left on the page, trailing from the ink, from the pen, from the fingers, from the hand, from the arm, from the mind and soul. Dad is suffering terribly.

  I carefully close the notebook and click off the lamp. I sit very still in the darkness feeling helpless, wanting Mom. She would know what to do. Tell me! I make demands on the voice in my head. Tell me what to do, Mom!

  I wait for an eternity but she doesn’t answer so I walk out. I lumber up the stairs, each step taking me higher and deeper into despair. Knowing that I can’t help Dad is filling me with fear and hopelessness. By the time I reach the landing I am crying. And then … the second heartbeat pops up, so I throw open the bedroom door. Lo and behold, there is Michael rocked back in my chair with his legs propped on the desk. He is fiddling with the pedicure toe divider I got from the Cut ’N Dye hair salon.

  “Are these really necessary in life?” Michael muses with a satirical smile. He slides his fingers through it like it’s a brass knuckles.

  I wipe my eyes and gently close the door. “How did you—” I glance at the closed window and then back at Michael. He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh,” I say and lean against the door. I still forget that Michael can flash anywhere he likes.

  Michael takes in my somber mood and tosses the toe divider onto the desk. We eye each other for a moment.

  “You’ve been gone a long time,” I say.

  “You shouldn’t worry so much about your dad,” Michael says by way of avoiding my statement. He is habitually vague regarding his whereabouts.

  I’ve tried to be accommodating, but just now I’m not in the mood for more secrets. “I haven’t seen you in three days,” I push my point, and Michael holds out a hand.

  “Why so far away? Come here.”

  I fold my arms and lift my chin. “Three days, Michael! And you don’t even pop in to let me know you’re okay!”

  His hand drops and his mouth twitches with deliberation. “I can make you, you know.”

  Yes, we discovered that the pulling I feel in my chest is Michael using a supernatural ability to draw me to him. It finally made sense after all those times he wanted me close, to protect me, or just to hold me. We added it to the list of Rare and Bizarre Things Between Michael and Sophia.

  “Come here,” he orders.

  “Nope.” I am purposefully stubborn because I want to hear where he has been. Plus, I can’t think when we’re too close.

  “I’m gonna do it,” he warns.

  “Don’t.”

  “Gonna do it.”

  “No.” I anchor myself to the door handle.

  “I can’t think when you’re so far away.” Michael stands, and the gentle tug in my chest whips like
a tight rope, and I’m propelled through the air, across the room, and into his outstretched arms. He envelops me, and I give in, wrapping myself around his neck as tears come again. I don’t want to be upset about Dad. I want to grill Michael on his whereabouts, to hear about his soul-saving adventures so I can live vicariously through him.

  I rarely get what I want.

  Michael strokes my head, crooning, “It’s okay. He’ll be okay.” He understands the depth of my concern about Dad better than I do. Sometimes I’m grateful that Michael can read my emotions, grateful that I don’t have to explain everything I’m feeling. Especially when I don’t know exactly what has me so worried.

  Michael sets me on my feet and kisses my cheeks. Tasting my tears affects him; he moans and crushes me against him, devouring a path down my neck. I can feel his heart beating like an exclamation point, and I am lost. I soften against him, interrogation forgotten. His kisses become aggressive, the edge of his teeth sliding along my skin before sinking into flesh. Shivers explode and dance with my psyche. Maybe I’m feeling sorry for myself or maybe I missed him too much, but I have a reckless and greedy urge. So I hold his face and kiss him full on the lips.

  Michael freezes. Three seconds pass, and I feel sparks along my lips. Pop Rocks candy! We spring apart and stare and wait. Michael grabs my shoulders, anticipating something, anything. When the sparks dissipate, I reach up and touch his lips with my fingertips.

  “Did you feel it?” I ask, amazed. Michael nods with fear in his eyes. We stare until I’m sure the sensation has passed. “I’m fine.” I pull him to me again. Michael is still scared, and his lips are stiff when I press mine against his. Five seconds’ worth, and I feel sparks again, but they dissolve when I pull away. Nothing happens.

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  Michael stares hard at me, contemplating, and then slowly his eyes begin to churn until they are solid indigo. He lowers his chin and gives me a heated look that says, You’d better hang on.

  He cups my face and his lips part and slant across mine in a deep kiss. Sparks hit my lips and tongue, shooting to the back of my throat. They blend and melt into a delicious sensation that warms my secret places. Tingles dance like electric impulses under my skin. My arms and legs quiver with uncertainty so I cling to Michael, afraid I’ll lose my balance. Too much blood is rushing through my veins to get to my center, and my heart is swelling like an overfilled balloon.

  Michael’s lips are soft but demanding, consuming mine in a slow, deep rhythm. I breathe out as he breathes in, but he takes too much of me; I am dizzy and light-headed, my thoughts scattering like musical notes drifting apart, the song lost and forgotten … floating.…

  An alarm goes off in my head. My second heartbeat is pulled to the base of my throat and drums erratically. I should stop, but I want one … more … second.…

  *

  I hear my name in the dark and feel a soft pressure beneath me. A warm hand squeezes mine, and I respond by pushing my eyes open. Light seeps in. I see Michael’s pained expression over my face.

  “Sophia!” His voice is torn, and I’m instantly awake.

  “Oops.” I smile sheepishly. I am lying on the bed, and Michael is sitting next to me. Seeing that I’ve recovered, his concern morphs into anger, and he drops his head into his hands. “How mad are you?” I venture, and he shakes his head.

  “It’s my fault. I knew better.”

  I sit up gingerly and lean against the headboard, still a bit woozy. I’m a bundle of emotions, so I hug my knees to my chest and smile wistfully. “Don’t say that, Michael. I did this. Besides, it was wonderful!” His head snaps up and his frown kills my happiness. “What? You didn’t like it?”

  “Sophia, do you know what happened?”

  “Yeah, we kissed and I fainted.” My voice is soft and dreamy. I’ve never felt so much love in my life.

  “You fainted!” he repeats like I’m slow in the head.

  “Oh, Michael, it was worth it. I could feel all your emotions in that kiss. I mean really feel them. Didn’t you feel mine?”

  He is uncertain how much to admit but eventually grins at the memory. “Well, yeah, of course I did. It was amazing, like all your love was pouring from you into me.”

  Our eyes meet with a knowing look. We have never said the words aloud, and I feel my cheeks burn from embarrassment. Michael takes my hand and laughs softly. “You’re so funny.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t have to say it, you know. I can feel your love.” He gives me that look, the one that says I am not alone anymore, and I wonder, Was Michael’s soul made to fit me, or was mine made to fit him?

  “I love you, too,” he says, gently brushing hair from my eyes.

  I squeeze his hand and say, “I love you, Michael,” and we grin like lovers.

  “Now about this kiss—” he starts, and my eyes light up.

  “Oh, yeah! Next time we’ll have to stop—”

  “Next time!” he practically yells, and I have to shush him so Dad won’t hear.

  “Yes, Michael. Next time. You see, when we were kissing, I could feel something building inside me but I ignored it. I think we have to work up to this.” I purse my lips and contemplate the logistics.

  “Is that so?” He gives me his cynical one-eyebrow lift, which I ignore.

  “Yes, I know exactly when it happened. I’ll stop right before it reaches the base of my throat.”

  “When what reaches the base of your throat?” He sounds horrified.

  Michael thinks I was pouring all my love into the kiss, but in actuality he was pulling it, just as he feared. I’ll have to monitor that part, learn to pull back before I black out. Prudence tells me not to mention this, or the sweet residual effect the sparks left on my tongue and throat. I’m thinking the less said about kissing, the better Michael will feel.

  “Don’t worry so much. I’m fine. No real harm done.” I curl into his lap like a satisfied cat. Michael studies me for a moment and then rolls us over until he is lying on top of me. His eyes are indigo again and fixed on mine as he gently parts my legs with his knee. He lowers to his elbows, sliding in closer, and I welcome his weight. There is a moment of recognition as we acknowledge our bodies silently throbbing against each other. Michael seems fascinated by the effect and slowly grins.

  He dips his head and brushes his lips across my cheek. “We don’t know there wasn’t any real danger, Sophia.” He kisses my eyes, first one and then the other. His lips travel like a whisper along my skin to find the sensitive place beneath my ear. He nips at it, and an explosion of tingles shimmy down my body. I cling to him like I’m drowning. I hold my breath as tightly as I hold Michael, and he rocks and pushes against me. “You see,” he murmurs as his hand skims my waistband and then slides inside my shirt. I gasp softly as his warm touch spreads delicious tickles along the skin. His hand continues across my ribs and over my left breast where he hesitates, and our eyes lock. I am panting and Michael’s eyes are blazing into mine. His fingers flex slightly and then slide down and come to rest between my breasts. “The human heart can only take so much, and I’m not willing to risk losing you.” He taps the place above my heart to mark his point. I nod and he sweeps his hand around my waist, pulling me closer. His heart pounds rhythmically with mine, two muffled organs joining hands. I raise my knees and wrap myself around him, and we are one beat, one breath. Sometimes the eyes do all the talking so I tell Michael I am his and I open myself like a promise. I relax and give him what he already owns, and he claims it with a hard penetrating look.

  There is a rush along my skin, and then the air around us seems to quiver slightly before settling. Michael stops rocking and becomes very still. His eyes drift away, and then he reluctantly withdraws and drags himself up.

  “Damnit,” he mutters. He stumbles sideways like he’s drunk and then his eyes wash out.

  I bolt upright and grab his hand. “Michael, wait!”

  He looks at me through kaleidoscope eyes. “I
have to go. I’m … so sorry.” His voice is torn, and he sucks in a ragged breath to regain his composure.

  “Michael, please! Don’t leave me here! Take me with you! I want to help!”

  He smiles sympathetically. “I’m sorry, honey, it’s … our busy season. I’ll try to find you tomorrow. I love you, Sophia.” Our hands slowly slip apart as Michael steps back, fading into the wall. “And stay out of trouble,” he teases. His beautiful face is grinning as a pale blue light flashes. I blink and Michael is gone.

  Chapter 36

  Pretty Clothes, Misgivings, and Things that Want to Eat Me

  Today is Halloween, and I am back at work staring at the computer screen while Miss Minnie and LeRoy talk amiably about—well, I have no clue because my mind is caught between the moon and Michael’s amazing kiss. I absently touch my lips and feel a slight tingling residual affect.

  “So is ol’ Annie Leibovitz free to grab a bite?” Bailey asks, pulling my rip cord so I float back to earth. I didn’t hear her and Rachel come in. Miss Minnie reminds me to get some shots of the “little buggers trick-or-treating around the square tonight,” and then we file out.

  “That was a good game today,” Rachel says conversationally as we stroll down the sidewalk. I shrug, indifferent. I took a slew of photos this afternoon but don’t remember a single one. We slip into the Soda Shoppe where Coach Barns has taken the football team because we won and it’s a rare occasion. All the tables are full, so we crush into a booth with Duffy, Pacer, and Jordan the Leerer. The guys are already eating, and they groan and complain but let us in.

  I’m casually looking around when Jordan says, “If you’re looking for Dante, he’s not here. Oh, wait, you dumped him.”

  For some strange reason, Jordan has copped an attitude toward me ever since Dante and I stopped hanging out together. Now his well-earned title morphs into a challenging look, and because I’m feeling stubborn I refuse to back down. We stare like hostiles until Duffy snaps his fingers between us.