Touched by Death

by T. L. Martin

  “Yup, sending it now.”

  “Thanks.”

  We hang up, and I quietly exit the bathroom. Claire is still asleep on the air mattress, and Jamie looks like she’s in a full-on coma under my covers. I consider waking Claire for a minute since I really don’t want to pick up my ex alone at some bar at two in the morning, but I’d rather not get her involved in this. It’s not the first time I’ve received this kind of phone call regarding Bobby, and I’ve learned you never know what you’ll find when you pick him up.

  Instead, I grab a long, heavy winter coat from the closet and drape it over my pajamas, then snag Jamie’s car keys from her purse, slide my feet into warm boots, and tiptoe out of there.

  It takes a little while to get to the place because it’s not in town, but the second I see the Curly’s Bar sign I put the car in park and hop out. There are people lingering on the sidewalk, some puking and others making out. I ignore them as I make my way inside. True to form, Bobby is lying passed out in the middle of the room. I bend down beside him and lean closer.

  “Bobby.”

  He grunts.

  Could be worse. At least he’s semi-responsive this time. “Bobby, we gotta go.”

  His eyelids start to open, slow and heavy, and he just stares up at me for a minute, eyes squinting. “Lou? Is that you?”

  I smile softly, an unexpected wave of guilt flooding through me at seeing him like this. He was doing so well. Or at least, I thought he was. I should have been paying better attention. I should have been a better friend. “Yes, it’s me, Bobby. Listen. I’m going to need your help, okay?”

  Pause. Blink. “Okay.”

  “I’m going to slip my arm under your neck, but I’ll need your help pushing off the ground, okay? I can’t hold all of you on my own.”

  Another pause. A glance around. “Okay.”

  I do as I said I would, reaching down and curling one arm around his neck and shoulders, the other around his torso. “Now, Bobby. Push up now.”

  He shifts beneath me, groans, then hooks one of his arms around me and grabs on, using my body as partial leverage to pull himself up. It’s not easy, but I’ve done it countless times before, so I know just how to hold my stance, just how to steady him once he’s on his feet, and just how to walk while he’s leaning half his weight on me.

  “Lou,” he whispers, once he stops swaying. He angles his head at me, and guilt is written all over his tired face. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” It’s all a slur, each word running into the next.

  “Shh, shh. You’re okay, Bobby. You’re okay.” I nod toward the entrance. “See those doors? We’re going to start walking toward them now. Can you take the first step?”

  He knows what I’m really asking when I say that last part, because it’s the same exact words he’s heard hundreds of times before. He looks at me long and hard, probably remembering the same thing. Remembering our sad, useless tradition. And just like those times before, he slurs, “And the next. And the next.”

  A tear forms in the corner of my eye. How’d we get here again, Bobby? “That’s right.”

  After a moment, he moves, his right foot slowly stepping forward, and I begin to move with him. The bartender’s been watching us as he puts chairs up on tables, and I offer him a meaningful glance. I mouth a clear thank you, and he gives me a sad smile. How many times has he seen this before? Made calls like this? Sometimes I think being a bartender is the surest way to abstain from alcohol.

  We’re hit by a rush of wind, the cold breeze like a slap to my face, and the door slams behind us.

  “Hey, look who it is! Little Miss Savior.”

  I close my eyes, wishing I didn’t recognize the voice calling out to me. Of course he would be here. Who else would go out of his way to bring a good man like Bobby down when he’s finally beginning to turn things around?

  I don’t look at him as I inch a barely conscious Bobby toward Jamie’s car in front of us. I clumsily set him into the passenger seat and get him buckled up, watching as he closes his eyes. Then I close the door, take a deep breath, and turn to face Shithead Ryan.

  There’s a girl attached to his hip, and a small group of people cluttered around him, filling the sidewalk with the sounds of their lip-smacking and exaggerated laughter. I ignore them, centering my focus on Ryan.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, gritting the words out.

  “What, a guy can’t come out to Bumfuck, Nowhere to see his pal?” He kicks off the wall he’s leaning on, and the girl squeals as she stumbles off him. He inches closer. He’s not a tall guy, more short and stocky, but he likes to pretend he’s big and bad. “How come you get to have visitors but Bobby can’t?” I don’t need to ask how he knows Jamie’s in town because I’m sure Bobby told him. “Still the same old controlling Lou, I see. Trying to keep Bobby down, keep him from having a good time.”

  “Oh, is that what tonight was?” I gesture toward the vehicle behind me, where Bobby’s curled up, two seconds away from passing out. “A good time?”

  Ryan rolls his eyes. “If you were here a little earlier you’d have seen that yes, it was a hell of a good time. The guy finally let loose, remembered what it’s like to just let go. But you never seem to wanna stick around for the fun stuff, do you?”

  “Kind of like how you never seem to wanna stick around for the aftermath?” It’s not until then that I catch a glimpse of a blonde buzz cut to my right. I shift my gaze, squinting. “Dylan?”

  He separates his face from the petite girl wrapped in his arms, and I watch as recognition forms in his bloodshot eyes. His eyes widen, the alarm setting in immediately, but it quickly fades as he seems to realize it’s useless. I’ve already seen more than I need to. “Well if it isn’t Lou Adaire.”

  I let out an exasperated breath, shaking my head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Something darkens in Dylan’s eyes, his face turning menacing in a quiet, subtle way that sends a shiver crawling down my spine. “You keep your mouth shut.”

  “Like hell I will.”

  You know what, screw this. I have a wasted friend in the car, it’s almost three in the morning, and I’m fed up. I whirl away from the scene and begin making my way to the driver’s side. “Have a nice life, Ryan,” I call over my shoulder. “Just keep Bobby out of it.”

  “Oh, like you are?” His voice hikes up a notch as I unlock the door. “I see the way you lead him on, making him think if he changes he’ll get you back. You think you’re a better friend than I am, giving him false hope?”

  I say nothing, hating the way his words slide past my eardrums and snake their way through my throat until it’s constricted. I buckle up, sneaking a peek at the groaning man beside me. Is that what I’m doing? As though responding to my unspoken question, Bobby opens one eye, peers at me. A slow, sloppy smile appears on his face.

  I try to swallow, but the lump in my throat is too thick. Refusing to meet the gazes of our audience on the sidewalk, I start the engine and take off.

  There’s too much truth in the way they’re looking at me.

  Chapter 34

  “So where am I headed?” I ask, keeping my voice quiet so he doesn’t hear the slight tremble in my tone.

  Bobby slides his hand into his back pocket, clicks a few buttons on his phone, then hands it to me. “Right there.” A map is pulled up on the screen, the automated voice already calling out directions.

  We don’t speak for the rest of the ride. I slow the car as we reach his driveway, taking a minute to look around while I park. It’s a cute little house, actually. There’s a small porch, a nice sized yard with a garden I’m sure would bloom beautifully in spring. “This is where you’re staying?”

  He shrugs, looking out the window with me. When he speaks, there’s still a slur, but the time spent driving seems to have helped sober him up a little. “Hey, Lou . . . look, I, uh . . . I’m really sorry. I’m an asshole. I promised you this wouldn’t happen again, and I’m just really so�
��”

  “Stop it, Bobby.”

  “What?”

  “Stop apologizing.”

  “But it was a dick move—”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “So . . .”

  “So, you apologized already back at the bar and that’s enough, okay? Now it’s my turn.”

  That has his attention. He shifts in his seat to face me better, angling his head. “What would you need to apologize for?”

  I look away, purse my lips. “For not being a better friend. For not paying more attention. For not being there for you when you need me, like you’ve been here for me.”

  He shakes his head. “Lou . . .” When he looks back up at me, his eyes are shiny, unshed tears gleaming through. “I—I don’t know if I can do this sober thing. I mean, maybe Ryan’s right. Maybe this is just who we are, and that’s all we’re supposed to be, people like us. Is this . . . is this who I’m supposed to be?”

  “No.” I reach forward and squeeze his hand. “Listen to me, Bobby. Shithead Ryan is a loser. You are not. Do you understand?” It takes him a minute, but he nods. “Would a loser look after his mom the way you do?” I wait for him to shake his head. “Would a loser check in on me just to make sure I’m doing okay? Would he take care of me when I’m sick, because he’s trying to right his wrongs? Would he sit here, totally smashed in this car, and look me dead in the eye to ask if this is who he’s supposed to be?”

  Bobby doesn’t respond that time, but it’s okay, because I have the answer for him.

  “No, Bobby. A true loser would accept the situation he’s in without wondering if he should do better. Just the fact that you worry about who you should be in this life, what your role is, that is what separates you from the Shithead Ryans of the world.” Something in his expression softens, and I know I’m getting through to him. To the Bobby I care for. I pause, suddenly recalling the wise words of a boy I met inside my dreams. A boy surrounded by fireflies. “You know, we all have a light inside of us. And the only person who gets to decide whether your light shines or not is you.”

  Bobby chuckles quietly, rubbing his chin. “Shit, Lou. When’d you get so smart?”

  “Please. I’ve always been smart.” I grin mischievously. “But I may have stolen that last line.”

  We both laugh, then he sits back in his seat, taking in the dark skies. It’s quiet, comfortable, but there’s one more thing I need to say before I go.

  “Hey, I’m proud of you, Bobby.” His blue eyes twinkle as he turns them back to me. “You said you’d clean up, and you really did it.”

  He grunts. “Yeah. Till I went and messed it up tonight.”

  “Forget about tonight. Just listen, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I repeat my words slowly this time, ensuring they really soak in. “You said you’d clean up, and you really did. Do you know how many people say that and never actually do anything about it?” His lips press together. “A lot. But you, you actually did it. You’ve proven that you are strong. That you have what it takes. And you’ll do it again. I’m not even worried, because I know you will. But can I ask you something?”

  His brows furrow. “Of course.”

  “Will you promise me you’ll do this for yourself? For you, and no one else?” He stares at me. “Not for your mom, and especially not for me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re worth it, Bobby. You matter. The person you are when you’re sober? Fight for that guy. I know I sure as hell will.”

  “I . . .” He blows out a deep breath and hangs his head. “Jesus, Lou. I don’t think you know how much that means to me.”

  I give his hand another squeeze, and he holds mine tight for a long minute. It’s a friendly gesture, two people leaning on each other, and I think we both need it.

  He releases my grip, and I nod. “Friends?”

  His eyes light up, a sweet, gentle smile forming on that forever baby face. “Friends.”

  This Sunday seems to be hitting me extra hard. I don’t know if it’s having to say goodbye to Jamie, or the way I’m seriously missing him, or the fear that consumes me every time I check if my heart’s still beating, but I ended up dedicating the day to cleaning at Mr. Blackwood’s just to keep my mind occupied. I’m sick of sulking and feeling sorry for myself, and by the time I walked out of his house feeling stiff and sore from putting so much into it, I was pretty happy with my choice.

  Not only was it an effective distraction, but I made progress with Mr. Blackwood. He actually spoke to me today. Like, real words, not just grunts. He even offered me a glass of water. Of course, when he saw my surprise at the miniscule gesture, he said, “Get your damn jaw off the floor and take the water before I change my mind,” but still. Progress.

  I don’t know if I’ve given him enough time to forgive me yet, to rebuild the trust between us, but I don’t think I have a choice: next time, I’m asking him about the Hawkins brothers. He might try to walk out on me again, but it turns out knowing your heart might stop at any second can fill you with a crazy kind of determination.

  This is it. He has to answer my questions next time because, as morbid as it sounds, who knows how much longer I have?

  I’ve been thinking about it more lately, and if there is some reason I’ve been dreaming about those boys, if there is something I’m meant to do about it, maybe figuring out that piece of the puzzle will help put the rest in place. If anything, it’s a starting point.

  I’ve just stripped out of my clothes and am about to step into a late-night bath when a knock sounds at the door. I pause, take a few steps toward the bedroom. It sounds again, louder this time. Impatient. Who could that be? It’s almost ten at night, and Claire left hours ago, after a long day spent at the festival.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Jeez. I grab my silky robe and tie it shut, then head to the door, wishing it had a peephole. I’ve just begun twisting the handle when the thing’s shoved open, and a blonde buzz cut strides into the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Dylan? What are you doing in my room?”

  He whirls around to face me, and I instantly notice the way his eyes are dilated. They’re wide and red-rimmed, and I wonder what he’s on. When he speaks, it comes out fast, almost manic. “Lou, I had to see you. I had to make sure we were good after last night. We’re good, right?”

  Is he serious right now? “No, Dylan. We’re not good. Now can you leave?”

  He shakes his head, then starts pacing. “I was thinking about it today, like all day long, and I just need you to promise you won’t say anything to Claire. Okay?”

  “Why would I promise that?”

  “Because I love her.” He stops in his tracks, looking at me with some kind of wild spark in his eyes. I’ve never seen him like this, and there’s something deeply unsettling about it that causes my stomach muscles to clench.

  “Dylan, I have nothing against you, okay?” Lie. “But if you really loved her, you would have been with her last night. Not making out with someone else.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” He takes a step toward me. I take a step back. “Claire . . . she’s good. She’s wholesome. She’s perfect. She’s the kind of girl I want to marry someday. But sometimes I just gotta take the edge off a little, and I can’t do that with her. She—she wouldn’t like that side of me. So I blow some steam with chicks who don’t matter, who mean nothing to me. I swear, Lou . . . they are nothing to me.”

  I pause, clenching my jaw. “They?”

  He closes his eyes, realizing his mistake, and when he opens them again, there’s something dark dancing behind them. Such a quick shift from panic to anger, just like last night. And just like last night, there’s a stillness, a calmness to his rage that has me taking another step back.

  “I need you to leave, Dylan.”

  “And I will. Just as soon as you make me that promise.”

  “I’m not promising anything, so you may as well go
now.”

  He’s creeping toward me, hands balling into fists at his sides, the tendons in his neck bulging, and I realize he has me backed into a corner when my shoulders connect with the wall.

  “I’m not going to tell you again. You need to leave.”

  “What?” He stops when there’s just two feet of space between us, pausing for effect. “You afraid or something?”

  I shake my head, hiding my quivering hands behind my back. “Not afraid, no. Just wondering . . .” I quiet, sniffing the air as I mentally prepare myself for my next move. “What kind of cologne you wear. Some kind of spice?”

  A blank look crosses his face. I’ve thrown him off. And that’s my cue. I feel the impact against my knee at the same time his yelp sounds, just before he folds over.

  Holy crap. That really works.

  “Fuck,” he squeaks. “I wasn’t even gonna touch you. But now—”

  I rush to step around him but my head falls back as he grabs me by the hair. This time I yelp, a wave of pain running through my scalp, my neck. Before I can twist myself around to face him, the hold over my hair suddenly disappears, the unexpected release making me stumble to the floor. I look up, and it takes me a second to figure out what I’m seeing. My breathing all but stops once I do.

  Dylan is frozen in place. With Death right behind him. One muscular arm is wrapped around Dylan’s neck, locking him in place with ease. Dylan’s chest rises and falls with quick, short movements. “Wh-who’s there?”

  Death doesn’t hesitate, his low voice snaking around my body, hugging every curve it touches. “Who I am doesn’t matter. It’s who you are, and what you do after this moment, that does.”

  My eyes dart between the pair of them, one shaking as though he’s about to pee himself, the other deadly calm. I had been assuming Dylan couldn’t hear Death’s voice, since no one other than me had before, but the way the guy’s ears are perked up, his head angling toward where the sound’s coming from, makes me think otherwise.

  “You’re going to walk out of here and never come back. You will never touch her, look at her, or even breathe in the same space as her again. Do you understand?”