The Leftovers of a Life

by Anna Oney

  "But, but . . . ," Claire whined.

  "I know y'all love your friend. But for his sake, this is a sacrifice we're all gonna have to make." Why are we keeping this from Tom? Emma asked herself. Oh, that's right. Because we looove him . . . or whatever.

  With the berries in tow, they headed home. Along the way, Emma explained to the girls that they'd stay at their old house with Darby and Link while she was gone. At first, the sisters argued how they were old enough to stay by themselves, and they promised if they needed help they'd ask for it.

  Emma shot that down as quickly as it parted from their deceiving little mouths. Not 'no,' she thought, but 'hell,' no.

  Emma's mind ran through the checklist of supplies she'd already packed, and those she still needed to acquire. Her rifle was in the back corner of her closet, hidden and out of the girls' reach. The pistol Doolie had bought her was stowed in one of her pack's side compartments. Fishing line and hooks, stolen from Winston's not-so-secret stash, were among her other belongings. Stealing wasn't something Emma had wanted to do, but it was necessary to keep her departure a secret. If Emma had asked for the supplies instead of taking them, she would have had to explain why she needed them on such short notice. It was the same story with Maddox's stash of deer jerky. Bless his heart, she thought. It took me all of three minutes to sniff that one out. Men had their little hiding places, and women had their ways of seeking them out.

  Emma still lacked extra bullets and a wire coil to set snares, which she hadn't yet acquired from Doolie. She believed bombarding her pack with food wasn't the wisest idea. It could easily become too heavy to bear. If she needed to eat, she would hunt or catch fish from the creek. If she was too tired for that, she would snack on the jerky that had been provided, unknowingly, by her cousin. Emma's green-and-brown plaid, button-down shirt was laid out for the next day, folded with her camouflage overalls. She was ready.

  Everything's well thought out, she tried assuring herself. Sure . . . sure it is.

  Arriving at the gate a half-hour later, the girls seemed happy to be home. Out of the four of them, Emma was the only one who wasn't thrilled about being back. That day marked the last day of her training. Rounding the corner of the trail, she spotted Tom leaning against the railing of her porch.

  "Hey there, ladies." He grinned. "How was y'all's walk?"

  "We've got berries to share!" Claire joyfully exclaimed as she ran toward him with her arms stretched out. Jumping into his muscular arms, she asked, "What are you doing here?"

  "Oh, well, I'm here to see Miss Emma," he said, balancing her on his hip in a way Emma found to be incredibly charming. "But only if it's okay with you."

  "Girls, give those berries to Momma Shirley, and finish up your chores," Emma interrupted, causing Tom to let Claire down to the ground. "I'll meet up with you after we're done here. Okay?"

  Sulking, they answered, "Yes, ma'am," before turning to leave.

  "C'mere and give me some sugar before you go!" Emma said. She could feel Tom's eyes burning into the back of her skull. At that moment, she sensed Tom wanted some sugar, too, but only from her.

  Sending the sisters off with Stella and Ripley meant Emma and Tom were left alone. In the days following their magic moment the pair had continued with her training without speaking a single word about it. Their conversations were occupied only with the topic of Emma's progress, and the areas Tom felt she needed improvement in.

  Since she'd nearly broken Tom's nose, Emma feared hurting him again. During their last couple of sessions, she had stopped hitting the mitts as hard. Lately, she felt as though she was disappointing him more than she was disappointing herself. She could live with her own disappointment but hated making Tom think less of her.

  Climbing the steps, Tom turned around, sporting the cutest grin. "Ladies first," he said, opening the door.

  Brushing past his shoulder, Emma caught the scent of cedar and lemon, and thought, I get the smell of cedar . . . but lemon? How in the hell can he smell like lemon?

  "Have you been working with Link?"

  "Yeah," he replied, closing the door. Resting his hand on the middle of Emma's back, Tom ushered her into the living room. "He's planning on building everybody a getaway cabin in the woods."

  The unnecessary contact confused Emma at first, but when the bouquet of wildflowers resting on top of the counter caught her eye, she understood completely.

  "For you." He smiled, handing them over.

  "Oh, wow." Emma blushed. "Thank you."

  A humongous sunflower in the middle was surrounded by daisies and a few purple flowers Emma was ashamed she didn't know the name of. Not only were they beautiful, but they smelled terrific as well. Emma took a couple of whiffs before she noticed Tom bring his hand to her ear, and then brush back a couple of her stray curls with his fingers. She locked eyes with his, and he glided his fingers from Emma's ear to her neck, and then chose to linger at her collarbone. Experiencing Tom's touch brought immediate shivers down Emma's spine.

  "So . . . hey." She paused, clearing her throat as she stepped back. "Ain't we focusing on major arteries today?"

  Taken aback, he clenched his jaw, and replied, "Go get your weapon of choice."

  Leaving him, Emma stepped inside her bedroom and laid the bouquet on the nightstand. As she grabbed the weapon that she'd gradually nursed back to health, she couldn't help but stare at her flowers. Even though Emma was more of a box-of-chocolates kind of gal, the kind gesture warmed her heart considerably.

  He deserves so much more than I could ever give him.

  As Emma returned to the hallway, she found Tom waiting beneath the arch of the living room. Because of Emma's vast imagination, walking toward Tom was never a good thing. Her mind turned to the image from a cheesy romantic flick, where the superficial girl dramatically flings herself into her lover's arms. And then switched to a big-budget war film, where the solider returns home to find his darling wife dabbing at her eyes with a cherished handkerchief. Even though Emma knew she had a good grip on reality, she couldn't help but think, I have watched way too many movies.

  Tom seemed to be in deep thought, thoughts so deep, Emma feared waking him from it. Approaching him with caution, she set the spear tip on the coffee table, and whispered, "Hey, Tom, you ready?"

  In response, Tom stepped forward and didn't ease up until Emma was pinned against the wall. Tom took Emma by the hand, startling her, and grazed his lips over her skin.

  "Emma, do you like me?" he whispered.

  "I, um, I . . . yes, I guess," Emma managed to reply. "But . . . obviously not in the w- way you think."

  "Can I ask why?" He leaned forward securing a couple of her untamable curls behind her ear.

  "Well, uh, ah," she stammered, clinging to the wall, "I, I just, you know, I don't think I can answer that question right now."

  "If you don't want this to happen"—Tom paused, bringing his lips to her forehead—"tell me and I'll stop."

  Emma was thrown into a desire-filled moment where the only acceptable answer was yes. But, unlike others before her, she was able to climb down from the heat of the moment. She couldn't open her mouth to speak. To do so wouldn't have been wise—Emma knew if she were to part her lips, they would be immediately attached to his.

  She brought her palm to his chest, and Emma pushed him away. Clamping her mouth shut, she shook her head, and thought, I don't think I can hold out for much longer.

  Tom kissed her forehead, took a deep breath, and sighed.

  "Are you sure?" he asked.

  No . . . No . . . Yes . . . No . . . , she thought. Yes, I'm sure! Reluctantly, Emma nodded her head.

  Tom backed away, retrieved the spear tip from the table, and used it to beckon Emma toward him.

  "All right, then," he said, acting as though nothing had happened. "If you had a knife, what area of the body should you go for first?"

  "The neck?"

  "The jugular is a good place," he said. "But hard to get to. Slash at his eyes, w
rist—chest is good, too, but it won't stop him from coming at you. He'll most likely be protecting his upper body by holding out his arms in front of him. If that's the case, then you'll want to puncture the radial artery. Make sure and have a firm hold on the handle, and make swift stabs and slices. You don't want to drop your weapon. Or give it to them by sticking it in a place you can't easily retrieve it."

  "What artery?"

  "The. Radial. Artery."

  "Saying it slower ain't helping."

  Tom stretched out his forearm. Pointing toward the branches of veins near the elbow, he explained, "This is one of the main blood vessels, located in the inner elbow. It's a good one to cut. And if it's not tended to quickly, a lot of blood will be lost. And I mean a large amount. Same goes for the wrist. But cutting the radial will do the most damage."

  "Good to know."

  "Now, if your attacker chooses to come at you with full frontal force, then puncturing them in the lower neck above the collarbone would work also. That's the subclavian artery. The femoral artery could also do the trick."

  "Fem . . . fem . . . mor . . . al artery?"

  "For God's sake." He groaned, motioning toward his thigh and crotch. "Around this area is a good place to stab. Jab that sucker in there, and it'll get the job done."

  "What if . . . so what if I'm attacked and I wasn't able to pull my knife fast enough?"

  "You—"

  "I'm not finished. Hold your horses. What do I do if he's already on top of me?"

  Tom stepped forward, and placed his thumb at the base of Emma's chin. Towering over her, he caressed her jaw, and whispered, "Nothing. Because whatever piece of shit put you in that position means to keep you there."

  Shrugging off his negative response, Emma held her weapon out in front.

  "Just think for a second. What could I puncture from the back that would do the most harm?" she asked.

  "You can go for the axillary artery," he answered, and then noticed the bewildered look on Emma's face. "The armpit, Emma, go for the pit."

  "This is good. What else?"

  "If they're on top of you, you can stick it beneath their ribcage. But stab upward. You'll puncture their kidney thataway."

  "I think I can do that."

  "You planning on being attacked anytime soon? Do I need to pay a visit to anyone in particular? Somebody giving you trouble?"

  "I just want to be prepared."

  "If all else fails, just stab them as many times as you can. One good stab will throw them into shock. If that doesn't work, go straight for the gonads. That'll stop them for sure."

  They went on like that for the next couple of hours. Intently, Emma listened to Tom as he went over the best moves to make and the most damaging places to slice. Emma had never thought she'd have to learn things such as how to kill another human being. The thought of taking someone's life caused an uneasy feeling to lurch in her stomach.

  Nearing the end of the day's lesson, Emma found herself turning the spear tip over in her hand. A couple of days ago, Doolie had helped Emma construct a handle using spare duct tape, as well as a sheath to keep the makeshift knife by her side. Being in possession of the spear tip sometimes brought Emma an overwhelming sense of pride. She was proud to have it, and would be even prouder if she ended up using it to save her life.

  "You really have grown attached to that thing, haven't you?"

  "I wouldn't call it attached exactly." Emma grinned. "But my invisible stranger is still quite attached to me."

  "Don't remind me."

  "So, we done for the day or what?"

  "Yeah. I'd say we're through," he replied, and Emma believed he'd put too much emphasis on the word "through."

  Great, she thought, now he's pissed at me.

  ***

  The rest of Back Wood's occupants were either tending to the garden or to the animals. Added to their doctorial duties, Mrs. Maples and Cooper's evening job was arranging dinner. By now, they were pros. Almost every evening, they had dinner cooked and ready by sundown for everyone to chow down at the dance hall. Cooking breakfast and lunch wasn't on their list of problems—it was on the rest of the neighbors. If they wanted something to eat in the dewy mornings or during the hot, scorching afternoons, they had to fend for themselves.

  When Emma's older cousins Winston and Maddox, and their childhood friend Matt went on hunting trips, they were required to leave four strong men behind to protect Back Wood. Tom, Link, Ian, and Emma's younger cousin Lyle were the ones left behind.

  Lyle and Ian were stationed at the main barrier, equipped with AR-15s and an extra supply of food and water for their shifts. Each of them patrolled the fences daily. Knowing that, Emma chose to take her leave not from the front, but from the back barrier.

  Everyone had their own jobs to do. They had a system so great that Emma was able to find out the exact time her neighbors began their days. Emma knew if she left around 4:00 a.m., she would beat the morning traffic and successfully avoid her neighbors' frustrating looks of concern and nosy questions.

  Darby promised Emma she would bring the girls to see her before she departed. Emma planned on walking with them down to her parents' so she could bid them farewell, too. Even though Shirley was annoyed with the time Emma had requested that they wake, she assured Emma that she and Doolie would be prepared for their daughter's early-morning visit.

  Having all the details worked out, Emma felt confident everything would go as planned.

  Come the next morning, she believed the less human contact there was, the better. The surfacing of last-minute issues was the last thing Emma needed.

  ***

  Emma's last stop for the day was Mary's house. Since the day Mary had taken her last pill, the slightest movement she made caused her to slip into a spell of excruciating pain. Along with her fatigue, her shortness of breath had gotten far worse. Whenever she coughed now, the hacks went so much deeper. To catch some of the blood, Mary was forced to cough into one of her beautiful crocheted dishtowels.

  Knowing her niece all too well, Mary'd seemed to pick up that Emma wouldn't be visiting for the next couple of days. Mary possessed the ability to sense when something was worrying Emma.

  As Emma walked through Mary's bedroom door, she wasn't surprised when her great-aunt asked, "When . . . when are you leav . . . leaving?"

  "How do you do that?"

  "Honey . . . you can't hide any . . . anything . . . from me. No matter how hard you try."

  "I didn't want you to worry."

  "I'll always worry about you," she said. "Till . . . the . . . the day . . . I die."

  "Seems to run through our bloodline, don't it?"

  All Mary could do was nod. As she made a fist around the cross on her neck, she leaned forward, and whispered, "Can . . . you help me get this off?"

  Removing the cross, Emma held it out for her, but Mary pushed her niece's hand away.

  "I can't take this," she protested. "You've never left the house without it."

  "It's yours now . . . now you." She wheezed. "Never leave the house without it. Remember . . . to . . . always keep the good Lord close. Put . . . put it on . . . I want to see it on you."

  The cross had an unnaturally light feeling. As it dangled from Emma's neck, she knew she would treasure it forever. The cross would always stay close to Emma's heart—not only for its beauty and for what it symbolized, but for the mere fact that it had come from her Aunt Mary.

  "Hey." She paused, patting Emma's hand. "You want to hear . . . hear a story . . . before you go?"

  "No one ever turns down your stories."

  "Do . . . do . . . you kn. . . know where you got your red hair from?"

  "Memaw Martha?"

  "No . . . not originally," she said. "One of your great-great-great-great—I'm not sure which one—grandmothers is rumored to have been forced into marriage."

  "Really?"

  "Yes . . . against her will, even." Mary coughed. "She was only four. . . fourteen."

  "F
ourteen?!"

  "It's been told that one of our ancestors forced a young girl into marrying him. This woman was a Native of the land. A long time ago, my grandfather sh . . . showed me this old black-and-white photo of their small family. Back then, nobody smiled in pictures. They all looked depressed. The mother and father could con. . . control—" She coughed, clearing her throat. "'Scuse me. They could control their own emotions, but they couldn't contain those of . . . their son."

  "Kinda sounds like Griffin when we'd have to keep him still for pictures with Santa."

  "The apple doesn't . . . fall too far from the tree." She smiled, taking a breather. "Anyways . . . I can't recall the parents' names, but the boy's was . . . oooh, let me think." She paused, scratching at the bottom of her chin. Looking up at the ceiling, she exclaimed, "Samuel! Tha. . . that's right. The boy's name was Sam . . . Samuel."

  "So if she was a Native, then her husband must've been the ginger?"

  "Right. Our . . . our branch of Clerys comes from them."

  "Yeah, makes sense with us being able to live off the land like we do. But please don't tell me that's the end of the story."

  "No . . . no, I just needed to fill you in on a little ba. . . backstory first. The rest of the story goes like this . . . "

  Emma's aunt described their ancestor as a girl in her early teens who had been thrust into the arms of a man she didn't know or love. Mary wasn't quite sure of the specific circumstances or details, but she knew the story of how the Native's son's hair turned from raven black to orangey red.

  She went on to tell the story her granddaddy had told her decades before. She spoke about how rowdy the boy had been, and how they hadn't been able to keep him still for a second. Samuel had grown up learning both his father's and mother's languages. The child's father hadn't agreed to it at first, but later he'd realized it was good for the boy to know both sides of his heritage.