Lost Secret

by Emily Kimelman Gilvey

  Another unintelligible question.

  "It is believed to be a drug, not a virus, causing these attacks, so we have not reached out to the CCA."

  "Do you plan on canceling the annual zombie run?" a reporter in the front row asked, his mouth close enough to the mic for the audience to hear.

  "No," she smiled. "These are not zombies."

  "They brought the victims here?" I asked.

  The nurses turned, noticing my presence for the first time. "Oh, hi, Darling," Claire said. "Yes," she answered, her voice turning grave. "They came in late last night."

  "Terrible," I mumbled, casting my eyes to the floor.

  "How are you?" Harriet pitched her voice upward, her tone implying that it was almost impossible for me to be doing well. And if I was in good shape, it was a struggle. She expected a sad smile, a brave face.

  I looked up at her, making eye contact.

  She startled, her eyes slowly growing glassy as I held her gaze. "I'm fine." I shifted my focus back to the floor, looking at my sneakers. “I’ve got an appointment.”

  "Yes," Claire said. "I saw that. So brave of you."

  I kept my eyes on the ground as I shrugged. "If I can help." This was my fourth bone marrow harvest. When the doctors suggested the treatment for Megan, they tested me, but I wasn't a match for her. However, I matched a lot of other people. In fact, I was a record-breaker. I'd had a surgery every three months since then.

  Harriet clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Let's get you checked in," she said. "Oh, you're seeing Dr. Tor," she looked over at Claire. They smiled at each other, their eyes alight with humor. Harriet returned her gaze to her screen. "He's new," she told me, "and I think he's from the Federation of Kingdoms.”

  "I thought further east," Claire said. "Either way." She smiled at me. "He's a nice young doctor.” Then she nodded. Got it—I should date the nice new doctor. I gave her a tight-lipped smile. Too bad I don’t date.

  His hair was so black that light seemed to be absorbed by it. He must run his fingers through it a lot. That's probably why it's slightly disheveled and pushed off his forehead in that mad scientist look. But he was young, his skin the color of wheat fields glowing golden in the light of a setting sun, and unlined. Mad scientist have wrinkles…from all the stress of insanity.

  "I'm Dr. Issa Tor," he smiled, his accent slight and yet distinctly foreign. He waved a long arm toward the examination table. "Have a seat."

  The paper crinkled when I climbed on it. Dr. Tor sat on a low-wheeled stool entering passwords and reading warning boxes that sprang up his screen.

  "Thank you for donating again. Your marrow is very rare." His eyes stayed focused on the screen. "I don't see a family history here." He turned to me, his eyebrows raised. "You were adopted?"

  "Something like that."

  He cocked his head, and I thought he might ask me more questions, but he just turned back to the screen.

  "What is the disease this time?" I asked looking down at my sneakers.

  "Leukemia, so a harvest,” he answered, turning back to me. "Are you up for it?"

  "Yes," I said. "I'll be fine."

  He pushed off with one of his long legs and rolled the stool to where a blood pressure cuff hung. Dr. Tor held his stethoscope up to his mouth and breathes on it. When the metal touched my skin it was warm; his fingers did not brush me, but I wanted them to.

  A war brews inside me, battling between an intense need to be left alone and a hunger for touch.

  Dr. Tor pulled out his earbuds and returned the stethoscope to his neck. “Good.” The many textured sound of the Velcro from the blood pressure cuff ripping loose rasped against my skin sending a delicious shudder through me.

  The doctor returned to his computer. Each stroke on the keyboard made a satisfying clack.

  "I'm hoping we can do this early next week; we've got all your paperwork, everything is matching up." He nodded at the computer. "Same address?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Phone number?"

  "Yup."

  "Emergency contact here is Megan Quick. Is her number still the same?"

  I gripped the edge of the table, my hands pressing hard into the padding. "She's gone," I said.

  "Moved?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the screen. "We've got her as the same address as you, but I can change that." He clacked some more.

  "Disappeared," I squeezed the word from between my lips, trying to keep the truth out of the air I breathed.

  He looked over from the computer, his eyebrows raised in question.

  "She was a patient here," I said.

  His expression shifted from confused to embarrassed, his cheeks flushing and eyes lowering. "I'm sorry," he said. "For your loss."

  "I'll just get a cab home after."

  He looked up at me, his skin still flushed but eyes intent. "We don't recommend that."

  "I know the recommendations," I said through gritted teeth. "I know all about your recommendations." I bit down on my lip to stop the anger bubbling out of me. Megan and I followed them all, and she still wasted away.

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath then blew it out through slightly parted lips, letting my jaw relax. "I'm sorry," I said. "Can we just finish up here? I've got to go."

  "Of course," he turned back to his computer. "You're not on any medications?" I shook my head. "You used to be on antipsychotics, though?"

  "Not for a long time. Is that in the records there?" I had not taken any medication regularly since moving to Crescent City. Why would Mercy have my records from before I moved here?

  "Our system was recently upgraded," Dr. Tor said. "It links to any other facility records with a matching name and ID number."

  "Oh," I said. "I haven’t taken anything like that in a long time. Would it matter if I did?”

  Dr. Tor shrugged. "It's not a problem either way."

  "I had a messed-up childhood," I blurted out. Dr. Tor nodded and raised his eyebrows, encouraging me to continue. "They said I had false memories." I can't believe I'm telling him this. But the words spilled out of me as if drawn by some kind of spell. "I have not hallucinated in a long time."

  "What did you hallucinate?" He asked, leaning slightly forward on his stool, the metal creaking beneath him.

  "I–" A knock on the door interrupted me and Harriet walked in, holding a file. A blush ran up my chest and over my throat. I almost told him about my delusions!

  Harriet passed the file to Dr. Tor. I glanced at my phone; it was later than I thought.

  "I have to go," I said.

  Harriet closed the door behind her even as I reached for it. Dr. Tor stood quickly. "Please, Darling, I just need a few more minutes."

  "I'm sorry, but I'll be late for band practice. I have to go."

  "But you'll come back? For the surgery, I mean.” He ran a hand through that dark hair, his eyes—just a few shades darker than his skin…wheat under a stromy sky—focused on my chin. As if he didn't want to meet my gaze.

  "Of course." He raised his eyes then and I wasn't ready. His breath stopped, and his pupils dilated. I turned and yanked open the door. My emptiness can suck in others. I am dangerous.

  Chapter Three

  I hurried to band practice. If you don't have talent, at least you can cultivate punctuality. Michael, our lead singer, nodded when I walked in and checked his watch. Didn't bother with a smile.

  We'd been working together since Megan got really sick—a few months before she disappeared. I didn't want to play with anyone else, but we had bills to pay. It wasn't hard to find someone who would take me. Like a good moon, I reflected the light of my sun beautifully.

  The practice space belonged to our bassist, Emmanuel, who never showed up on time. He saw Megan and me play a couple of times and invited me to join Higgs and The Bosons. I had a feeling he regretted it. Judging by Michael's sour expression, he definitely did. Without Megan I suck.

  Our drummer, Andrew, nodded to me as he walked in. A tall, lanky guy w
ho looked good in a worn T-shirt, he had floppy hair that danced around his head when he played.

  I tuned my violin, listening to the instrument, asking it to speak to me. We used to make magic—Megan, my fiddle, and me. Now I just practiced. Nothing special ever came through me.

  My throat tightened and pressure built behind my eyes. I put the instrument down and leaned against the wall, taking deep even breaths. Pull it together.

  Megan always stressed how we had to believe in ourselves. In our talent. "We have to have faith, Darling. We can do this!"

  We.

  A searing anger burned away the unshed tears. How could she leave me!

  "You okay?" Emmanuel leaned against the wall next to me, his stance casual. I swallowed and pressed my lips together, taking in another breath through my nose before looking up at him.

  His black curls, untrimmed and wild, floated around his head like a crown. His mahogany eyes flashed with amethyst. I dropped my gaze to his perfectly formed lips. They look so soft surrounded by that dark, rough stubble. "Are you sure?" he asked.

  Something about the question made the damn tears come back. Crap. I turned away, trying to hide from him.

  "Everyone's here, so let's get started," Michael announced.

  "Just a minute." Emmanuel stepped closer, his breath warm on my shoulder. "You will be okay, Darling." My name in his voice settled me—like a solid, comforting hand on my back. I peeked at him through my hair, keeping a black veil between us. He smiled gently, more with his eyes than mouth.

  "You ready to play?" Michael asked, an edge in his voice.

  Emmanuel nodded, and I felt my head moving with his. He stepped back, those smiling eyes holding mine for a beat before he picked up his bass and hung the strap across his broad shoulders.

  My gaze fell to his forearms, the muscles sharpening as he held the instrument. I licked my lips, hunger churning in my gut at the sight of Emmanuel’s long elegant fingers pressing and strumming the strings.

  "Darling?" Michael said. "Uh, can we have the pleasure of your company today?"

  "Sure," I said, barely above a whisper.

  "Let's start with 'Drawn to You'," Michael suggested.

  Andrew counted off a ”one, two, three,” clacking his sticks together. Emmanuel laid down the bass while Dre thumped out the beat. I pulled my bow against the strings, eyes closed, trying to invoke the music that belonged there. The notes came, but without the feeling, it sounded drab and flat.

  That's how practice went. All the boys played with their hearts, and I struggled not to miss anything. We practiced our whole set several times, paying particular attention to the single we planned to open with at our next gig. Our manager promised a couple of important people were coming to see us. The scent of a record contract floated in the air.

  As the last song ended, Michael glared at me, his eyes slits of anger. "What the fuck?" he asked.

  "Hey!" Emmanuel tensed.

  Michael turned on him. "She's fucking it up, Emmanuel."

  Emmanuel, his bass still hanging from his shoulders, stepped in front of Michael, blocking my view of him. "Lay off her." His voice was a quiet threat.

  "It was your idea to invite her; you fix her.” Anger wafted off him. I kept my eyes down, concentrating on the grain of my indigo jeans. He snorted before stomping to the door. It slammed shut behind him.

  I returned my fiddle to the case and closed the clasps—so upset I couldn’t even enjoy the clicking sound they made. As I stood, Emmanuel approached me, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his bass left in its stand. "You ever been to the Villa Relma Cemetery?" he asked.

  Huh? “I’ve passed it. Why?”

  Villa Relma was one of the city's more popular cemeteries. Tourists flocked there to see the graves of some of the area’s most notorious residents. It wasn't big, but within the crumbling walls laid three mayors, a famous priestess, and one of the biggest movie stars of the last century.

  "You want to go? With me? Now?" he asked, his eyes cast down, hiding under his dark lashes...letting me admire his high cheekbones and strong jaw, the contrast of his soft lips against that rough stubble again. I suppressed a sigh. “It's a place I've always found comforting."

  I didn't have time to look away before his eyes locked onto mine. I was drawn toward him, sinking into his gaze. "So what do you say? Want to go?"

  "Okay," I took a tentative step toward him. He broke eye contact and, reaching down, grabbed my violin case before turning to the exit. I followed him, tripping over myself a little. I should really eat something.

  Chapter Four

  We entered Villa Relma Cemetery as darkness fell. A cooling breeze accompanied the setting sun. Summer filled the air with heat and moisture during the day but the night still belonged to the spring.

  Emmanuel knew his way around, and I followed between the rows of mausoleums and crypts. Some were crumbling to the ground. The metal fences around them collapsed under fallen chunks of the structures they were meant to protect. Spurts of growth, green and ragged, shot from between the bricks, reaching toward the sun, making life work where it could.

  Tourist and locals wandered among the graves.

  Emmanuel led me to an unfenced, squat mausoleum about my height. Black dirt clung to the texture of the cement facade and gathered in the cracks. The entire thing was covered in question marks. They were written in groups of three—???—some small and tight, others scrawled.

  Candles, beaded necklaces, and mini bottles of liquor covered the roof's edge and lined the base. Envelopes and folded scraps of paper leaned against the worn, unreadable, marble plaque where it met the cemetery path.

  Emmanuel's shoulders shifted underneath his thin T-shirt as he placed my violin case on the ground. He reached into the pocket of his worn jeans and pulled out a couple of pennies and two sugar packets, holding them out in his palm toward me.

  His dark curls fell around his face as he looked down at me. We are in a fort together, no one can see us. Emmanuel smiled shyly. "Go ahead," he said. "Take a penny and a sugar packet and offer it to her."

  "Who?"

  "Suki, a powerful spirit. I think she can help you."

  I looked over at the shrine. "You really believe in this kind of stuff?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "Can't hurt. I guess it's—I don't know." I glanced at him. He looked at the mausoleum, the sun behind him backlighting his profile and turning his hair into a halo. "She's helped me find peace."

  I took the sugar packet and my fingers grazed his palm—a subtle thrum of electricity burned between us. Did he feel it too?

  "Close your eyes," Emmanuel said, his voice deep and quiet. A child laughed nearby, and a mother shushed them. "Ask your question.” His voice was so low I barely heard him.

  I squeezed the sugar packet between my fingers feeling the individual grains. A burning desire roared in my gut to see Megan again, to see her eyes flash at me, a shared secret, a shared past. I wanted Megan back.

  A tear slipped down my cheek, and I opened my eyes. I went to swipe at my face. “Wait,” Emmanuel took the sugar packet from me and caught the tear as it fell off my chin. He moved the packet up and dabbed at my eyes, the paper wet against my skin. I closed my eyes and felt his breath on my cheek. "She'll like that," he said, handing me back the sugar packet.

  "She likes tears?"

  "Anything authentic," he answered. "Go ahead, put it on the crypt."

  Reaching onto my tiptoes, I placed the packet between a bottle of rum and a piece of chewing gum on the roof's edge.

  The desire burning in me—this deep need to see someone again—reminded me of losing my father.

  We lived together in a wood cabin deep in an evergreen forest. The trees grew so thick that even on the sunniest days light could barely reach the forest floor.

  It was just the two of us, and he never left me alone. Where Dad went, so did I—hunting, fishing, gathering wood. We did it all side by side.

  I rode our mare, Honey, as my f
ather walked beside us. An easy silence interrupted by the crunch of snow under foot. A rippling growl froze us. Before I saw the danger, father slapped Honey's rump so that she bolted toward home.

  I looked back over my shoulder. A wolf leapt, latching onto Dad's shoulder, and knocking him to the ground.

  I screamed.

  Honey ran faster—my fear fueling hers. We went around a bend and I lost sight of Dad.

  The mare slid to a stop, and I flopped over her neck, my balance off, my mind a mess. Honey reeled up. I fell back, landing in the snow, my hood flopping over my eyes.

  I pushed back my coat to discover a wolf, hackles raised, blocking our path. Part of its muzzle looked like it had been gnawed off and its eyes glowed an eerie phosphorescent green.

  Honey just stood there, trembling, her breath coming in frightened snorts. I'd never seen her like that before, frozen in place; it wasn't natural. The flight instinct should have taken over.

  The wolf started forward, its mangled nose pulsing at the air. I grabbed at my bow to pull it around to the front of my body.

  The wolf lunged.

  I blocked it with my bow, keeping the creature's jaws inches from my face. Blood and saliva flew out of its mouth, landing cold and wet on my cheeks.

  My biceps shook, the yellow and cracked teeth inching closer. My arms gave out, and the wolf fell upon my shoulder. Teeth ripped through my coat and dug into my flesh. I screamed as much from fear as pain.

  An arrow pierced its eye, and the wolf collapsed, all of it's weight lying on top of me. I struggled out from under the body, crying and hyperventilating. My father stood twenty feet away, swaying. His left arm hung loose in its socket. His forearm and hand looked like tattered clothing. Blood dripped off them, staining the white snow.

  In his right hand he held his bow. Two wolves ran behind him. I screamed, pointing, and my father turned, almost falling. I brought my bow up and, tears blurring my vision, fired at the approaching beasts. My arrow found its mark—one wolf fell into the deep snow.