The Leftovers of a Life

by Anna Oney

  "Morning," she hoarsely answered back. "Oh, gosh." She coughed. "I sound like a chain-smoker."

  "Does it hurt?"

  "Feels like there's razors in my throat." As Emma grasped his callused hand, a wave of regret came flooding in. "Tom, he almost . . . he almost," she said, envisioning Roland weighing her down. "Why couldn't I just let you love me? And now all this has happened."

  "Emma—"

  "No, Tom, listen to me. Wherever I find myself, here or there, anywhere . . . " She paused, clinging to his spirit for support. "My heart will remain yours forever."

  "Oh, baby." Tom breathed, pressing his lips to her forehead. "My heart's been yours since you let us through the gate."

  Tom was the first to rise, and informed Emma that he would gather their things if she would be so kind as to handle the women. She figured he thought it would be easier for her, as a woman, to handle them. But dealing with severely depressed, shaken-up females was not her forte.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, Emma stopped at the women's bedroom door, and Tom gave her a hearty wink.

  "You want them to come along?" he asked. "Then get it done."

  As his form disappeared downstairs, Emma knocked on the door. The old Emma would have pounded on the door until they opened it. But the new Emma was going to be more patient, more understanding of others' needs, and gentler.

  Someone began stirring inside. Eleanor opened the door to find Emma awkwardly smiling at her.

  "Hey, umm . . . yeah, we're gonna get going soon. I think it'd be best if y'all come with us."

  "Voice came back to you then, I see."

  "I'm Emma, by the way, and yes, I'm thankful it did. Just wish I didn't sound like an old man. So y'all coming along?"

  "I don't think we're up for a long walk. It'd be best for us to just stay here. Everything may turn back on. You never know."

  Raising her arched brows, Emma argued, "Are you shitting me? You're shitting me, right? How can your decision be to stay here and do nothing, like your husband did? You'll kill yourself, and bring Marion down with you. Is that really what you want?"

  "Rudy did do something. He did try! He tried to fight them off of us."

  "Did he do that before or after he let them take over his house? A rifle that fancy wouldn't belong to jackasses like that. Why didn't he shoot them?"

  "They . . . they said they needed a place to stay for the night. When Rudy found out what they were, Roland had already taken the gun from him. He did fight! He fought for both of us."

  "He chose to make his stand a little late," she inconsiderately said. "Didn't he?"

  As the door was slammed in Emma's face, she realized the kinder, gentler person she'd recently chosen to be had disappeared as quickly as she'd taken to swear to change.

  "Look, I, I," Emma stammered, as she leaned her forehead against the door separating them. "I want y'all to come with us. The place I'd be taking you to is a good place. A small community, even. Please. Just think about it."

  Halfway downstairs, Emma noticed Tom at the landing, smiling up at her. Returning the favor was difficult, as Emma's words to Eleanor were fresh, and she was ashamed of herself. Tom accompanied Emma the rest of the way down, and his grip around her waist never faltered. That arm was the only thing keeping her together. He didn't waste any words by asking what was bothering her. All she needed was for him to just be there.

  Passing by the bodies in the living room, they arrived at the front door. Tom insisted on carrying their weapons and packs until Emma's strength was fully restored. Never did she believe Tom being a gentleman would annoy her, but it was starting to do the job. He wasn't aware of half of the things Emma had gone through. If he knew, perhaps he wouldn't be treating her like an eighteenth-century damsel in distress.

  "Tom, lemme carry one of them packs. I can handle that much. C'mon, now. And gimme my crossbow."

  Rolling his eyes, Tom handed them over. They exited the house, and halted at the bottom of the porch steps, realizing how fortunate they were to still be in the land of the living.

  Suddenly, the front door swooshed open, with Eleanor and Marion escaping from it. Each had a tight grip on the other's hand. By the look Eleanor was sporting, Emma was certain she'd chosen life after all.

  "I want you to know . . . Rudy . . . he did all he could for us," she said. "It didn't turn out the way he planned. But he did try. He was a good person. And my husband deserved better then that."

  "I don't doubt that, ma'am. I'm sorry for what I said. And for what it's worth, I'm glad you chose to come along."

  With the awkward apology and introductions over, Emma and Tom began leading the way up the driveway. Their new companions stayed quiet and followed close behind. Eleanor didn't bother asking where they were headed. Leaving that house, it seemed, was doing as much good for them as it did for their saviors.

  With the sun high in the sky, they reached the end of the long, winding driveway. Emma stood, knowing Griffin's house was only a day's walk to her right and Back Wood was a three-day walk to her left. As Emma took a step to the right, her arm was tugged to the left.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'm finishing this," she said. "What are you doing?"

  "He's a man. You're going to have to let him find his own way," Tom argued, forcibly trying to pull Emma toward the way back home. "C'mon, baby, it's time to turn back."

  "What if it were Cooper? Would you leave him to die?" she asked, struggling against his grip. "You cannot honestly tell me you wouldn't go after him."

  "It wasn't Cooper I went after. It was you. You're a better person than me. Honestly, I can't say if I would or not."

  "I know you would."

  "How can you not be ready to go home?"

  "I can't turn back now. It'll kill me."

  "Don't go risking your life for that drug-addicted piece of shit. He's never done anything for anybody but his own damn self. I remember that much about him from school."

  "You think the things Griffin's done in the past are gonna make me love him less? He's my brother."

  "Doolie said to bring you home no matter what."

  "Daddy ain't here. Is he?"

  "What happened to Stella? I found her grave, Emma. Stella's dead. She's dead. And you're in the state you're in now because you had no business leaving home! The girls need you; we all need you. Come back with me. You need to be taken care of. Please."

  "You knew I would keep looking for him," she said, fighting back the vision of the bolt sealing Stella's fate, trying not to cry. "This is something I have to do. If I don't do this—if I give up—it'll haunt me for the rest of my life. Do you want me to live knowing I could've helped him, but that I gave up when I was so close?"

  Pulling away from her, he replied, "If it means you surviving this God-awful mess you've gotten yourself into, then yes."

  "When you make it back, tell my family I'll be home soon—with my brother by my side. Take these ladies with you. They'll be a hell of a lot safer with you."

  Abruptly, Emma turned away from him and began heading toward Robert's house, but something tugged on the pack she had requested to carry. Wheeling about, she found Tom standing behind her.

  "Give me the damn pack," he said, "or I'm not coming with you." Snatching it from her, he slung it over his already overloaded shoulder. "Unlike you, I don't step into a pile of shit wherever I go."

  After embracing, Emma and Tom parted, and were surprised to find Eleanor staring at them as though she'd committed a terrible sin.

  "Emma, I . . . You say your brother's name is Griffin?" Taking Emma's nod as confirmation, she continued, "Did he by chance have red hair? Like yours?"

  "Yes?"

  "About two days before Roland and his bunch showed up, we gave shelter to a young man. But when he left, they showed up. We figured he was scouting the place out for them or something. I guess not, though, since he's your brother."

  The biggest smile formed across Emma's face as she asked, "So maybe he's
home already then? Maybe I passed him. He'd take the road. He's never been good in the woods."

  "You say it took you three days to get here? So, what, it'd only take him maybe four or five to make it back home to you?"

  "What are you trying to tell me?"

  "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this." She paused, tearing up. "But he left here almost three weeks ago."

  Chapter 35:

  Emma

  "What do you mean, three weeks ago? Three weeks?" As Emma looked to Tom, she saw that his expression had drooped into a solemn gaze. "Griffin's dead then, isn't he?" she asked, crying and clinging to his chest. "My . . . brother's . . . gone." She gasped, sinking to the graveled ground below. "I waited too long. I've killed him! I killed my own brother."

  "You don't know that. He could still be out there . . . somewhere."

  "Yeah, but where? Which way should I go? How far? What am I s'posed to do now?"

  "Go home," Eleanor whispered as she placed a consoling hand on Emma's shoulder. "There's nothing left to do, and you can't search for him forever. You just can't."

  "She's right, Emma." Tom helped her up. "It's about time we headed that way."

  Turning away from them, Emma felt utterly defeated.

  "Ethan," she said, "he tried to tell me back in the house."

  "What'd he say?" Tom asked from behind.

  "They . . . they must've crossed paths with him. He told me not to go. He knew."

  There had once been a possibility of being reunited with Griffin. Only a day's walk had stood between them—now a lifetime did. They were right: If Griffin was lost, somehow he would have to find his own way. A way his smarty-pants big sister had yet to think of for him.

  Find me, Emma pleaded to him, wherever he might be. Gazing ahead, she mentally reached out and imagined Griffin walking toward her. Come back to us.

  Facing her comrades, Emma rushed past their shoulders and headed straight for home.

  ***

  This time, Emma agreed to travel by road. She argued with Tom at first, but when thinking of Stella's fate, she gave in. Devastated as she was, Emma focused only on the path before her and rested only when Tom grew aggravated enough to force her to do so.

  Distancing herself down the road, Emma killed two squirrels for their lunch. By the time she made it back, Tom and the girls already had a fire going with a can of beans boiling beside it. Simply nodding to them, Emma couldn't find the decency to thank them.

  "How'd you manage to start the fire?" she asked.

  "Matches."

  "Well, well, well, good for you."

  Contemplating eating lunch was beginning to overwhelm her. Every time Emma bit down, the cracked tooth she'd suffered when her face had collided with the log sent a shooting pain through her mouth. The after effects of the strangulation were still fresh as well. She could manage to swallow water with the least amount of pain, but Emma's body craved substance. Watching her companions devour their savory meals brought saliva to Emma's mouth.

  "You need to eat something," Tom said, passing over the stick with the impaled squirrel hanging from it. "You need your strength."

  Slurping up her drool, Emma muttered, "I'd rather not eat, thank you."

  Seemingly frustrated, he cut a piece of fabric from his sleeve. Pouring a serving of beans in the middle of the cloth, Tom smashed the contents until the consistency matched that of refried beans.

  "Here," he said, handing it over, "try this."

  "Gross." She moaned, pushing it away. "I'm not eating that."

  "All right, then. Elly, Mare." He breathed, handing them the pouch. "Will you two force-feed her for me while I hold her ass down?"

  Nodding their heads, they answered, "Sure."

  "Like hell you are," she said. "Nobody's ever holding me down again. Not even you."

  "Then for once in your life, do as you are told," he said, snatching the beans from Eleanor. "Eat the damn food. And you're not the first person to lose somebody, either. So stop acting like it!"

  "Fine."

  The pain was there, but hardly as painful as it would've been to chew and swallow strips of meat. As Emma finished her meal, her arrogant love sat with his arms crossed over his chest, seeming to enjoy every minute of his little accomplishment.

  Putting out the flames, Tom gazed toward the road ahead, and said, "We may not have to sleep outside tonight."

  "Oh, yeah?" Marion asked. "Where?"

  "I passed a church, oh, about—well, I'd say about four miles from here," he replied. "We can make it there by sundown if we leave now."

  "Let's go then."

  Along the way, Emma informed them of Nell and his family, and that they should arrive at Pete's place in a day or so. Tom had no objections in stopping to get the family. Emma believed he was proud she'd been able to make friends.

  The church was a lot farther than what Tom remembered. When they arrived, Emma was saddened to see abandoned cars littering the small community church's parking lot. Everything shut down on a Wednesday evening. These cars belonged to the devout people who not only attended Sunday's sermon, but Wednesday night's as well.

  Immediately, they began sweeping the cars to see if there was anything of value hidden away. Tom searched a red Mustang but couldn't find anything of use. Slamming the door shut, he took a deep breath, seeming to admire the vessel, and said, "Never thought I'd see the day where a perfectly good car wouldn't start."

  "Wouldn't it be something if it did, though?" Emma sighed, casually opening the door beside him. Turning the key in the ignition, she rested her head against the steering wheel. Glancing at him sideways, she shrugged. "Worth a try."

  Eleanor and Marion found two blankets in the back seats of a blue Camry and tan Ford Explorer. Emma and Tom were ecstatic to see them carrying three bottles of water as well.

  "Oh, look, in one of the gloveboxes we found some crackers, too." Eleanor said.

  "Good job," Tom said, leading the way toward the church's entrance. "C'mon, I'm beat. Let's eat and call it a night."

  Making their way through the vast array of cars, they stumbled upon a pile of ashes before the massive cherry-wood doors. Wooden crosses, Bibles, and Sunday school lessons had been burned to ash. A couple of stray Bibles lay unnoticed by the steps. Picking them up, Emma stowed them in her pack for safekeeping. The words "There is no God" were spraypainted in black across the entrance.

  "This is disgusting."

  "C'mon," Tom said, resting his palm against Emma's lower back, "let's get inside."

  Indoors, they checked the place out to make sure it was empty, and then they lit the candles next to the dusty piano. Using a desk littered with papers, they blocked off the entrance to prevent anyone from getting in. The rest of Emma's party began dressing up their sleeping arrangements. Emma, on the other hand, sat in the first pew in the front row and gazed up at the image of Jesus crucified on the cross. One tear escaped her eye as she heard someone walking up.

  "Your version of silence is so loud I can hear you from two halls away." Tom smiled, joining her.

  "He died for our sins and in return we burn His words? What sense does that make?"

  Pulling her closer, he whispered, "Not everyone's faith is as strong as yours, Emma. People are weak and stupid."

  "Yeah, well, people amaze me sometimes, is all."

  "What do you say we stop moping around and use some of these cushions to make us a bed?"

  "Sounds like a good plan to me."

  The girls took refuge in one of the children's Sunday school rooms, where they were lucky to find two beanbags. They chose to sleep away from Emma and Tom, giving their new friends some privacy. After bidding them goodnight, Emma and Tom headed toward the makeshift bed they'd created in front of the choir pews.

  Lying next to Tom, Emma used his muscular arm as a pillow, and he fell asleep far before the thought of resting ever crossed her mind. Every time Emma closed her eyes, horrid visions constantly switched from Roland on top of her, to the face
s of the men she'd killed. Shuddering at the image of the bolt exiting the crossbow and colliding with one of her victims' chests, Emma used the heel of her boot to selfishly nudge the man beside her awake.

  "Tom," she whispered, turning to face him. "You awake?"

  Groggily, he pried open his eyes, and answered, "I am now."

  "You've killed people before, haven't you? In the war?" Taking his nod as confirmation, she asked, "How many would you say?"

  "How come you want to know?"

  Hesitating, Emma lifted his arm, scooted closer to him, and answered, "Because . . . because I've killed four people in less than a week." Kissing Emma between the eyes, Tom pressed his forehead to hers. Before he could say a word, Emma continued, "And the others I didn't kill"—she paused—"died because of me. I'm afraid I might be on a roll."

  "It's not an easy thing. It's not for the softhearted, that's for sure."

  "How'd you cope?"

  "I didn't. I buried it. I never bring it up. Maybe that's how I've coped," he said, raising her chin. "But I've found that keeping it all inside isn't good for you either. I'm glad you told me."

  Resuming their positions, Emma whispered, "You still love me then?"

  "Of course."

  "It was Jane, wasn't it?"

  "Jane? What about her?"

  "She was the one who told you."

  "No, she wasn't."

  "Who, then?"

  "Darby."

  "Oh."

  "You mad?"

  "No." She sighed. "I'm gonna have to thank her when we get back home."

  "Right, you should," he said, pecking her on the cheek. "Now go back to sleep, baby."

  "Hey, Tom?"

  Exasperated, he replied, "What. Is. It?"

  "I like it when you call me baby," she whispered, embarrassed. "I had a dream. You were in it, of course, but you weren't the one calling me that."

  "Who else was in it?" he said, sitting up. "Who in the hell was calling you baby?"

  "Nobody you know," she replied, regretting mentioning it. "Just a stranger."

  "A stranger?"

  "Yes. Just a nice guy who helped me out."