Transcend

by Jewel E. Ann

  “Is everything okay? Just routine stuff, I hope.” His eyes narrow.

  “Not routine. But I don’t think they’ll find anything.” I sit back down in the chair. “Griffin asked me to get my brain checked out.” I laugh.

  Nate doesn’t.

  “His boss’s wife died of a brain tumor. He’s just worried that my special ability to see into your past and those of random other people might be caused by some brain issue. I’m doing it for him.” I shrug. “That’s what you do for the people you love.”

  “I’m sure you’re fine.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Hunt.” I smirk and he does too.

  “Oh my gosh!”

  My head whips around toward the high-pitched voice. A brunette, maybe in her fifties, holds her hands over her mouth, hiding part of her gasping expression.

  “She’s here.” Her voice could crack the windows.

  Without a single glance in my direction, she breezes past me toward Nate and Morgan. “Nathaniel, she’s the most precious thing I have ever seen.”

  “Thanks, Donna. I won’t tell your four kids that you said that.” Nate winks at her. He’s always been such a flirt.

  For the love of God, I think. Again, I just know this about him.

  “Can I steal her for a bit? Thea, Madeline, and Grace are down the hall. They’ll want to see her too.”

  I love that he doesn’t instantly pass her off. A flash of conflict ghosts across his face as he stares at his daughter. So protective.

  “We’re all moms, Nathaniel. She’ll be in good hands. I’ll guard her with my life.”

  “I can take her to see them.”

  “No, no. You have a student waiting for you.” She finally gives me a quick glance and polite smile.

  Nate’s gaze shifts to me. The introduction, the correction to her incorrect assumption, never comes. After a pregnant pause, he looks up at Donna. “Don’t touch her hands unless you wash yours. Don’t let her suck in air from her bottle. And if Marietta shows up, don’t let her hold Morgan because I don’t want my daughter smelling like cigarette smoke.”

  Before he gets the last few words out, Donna nabs Morgan, the bottle, and the burp cloth from his shoulder. “Don’t fret, Nathaniel. I’ll take good care of little Miss Morgan,” she says in a baby-talking voice while walking out of his office.

  I want to chase after her and make sure they do in fact wash their hands before touching Morgan’s hands, and tip her bottle at the right angle so she doesn’t suck in air, and guard her from chain-smoking Marietta. It’s scary how much I love that little girl who isn’t mine. I have lots of experience watching children, but I’ve never felt so attached to one as fast as I have with Morgan.

  “She’ll be fine.” I smile at Nate.

  The wrinkles lining his forehead ease a bit.

  “So, Professor Hunt, maybe you should teach your student something.” My fingers drum on the arms of the chair.

  His shoulders relax as the last bit of worry drains from his posture and his mouth forms that handsome smile.

  “I want to know if you still eat purple popsicles.” I grin. Knowing so much yet so little about Nate at the same time thrills me like a child opening gifts on Christmas—pure wonder and anticipation.

  He reclines back and props his jean-clad legs up on his desk, crossed at the ankles. His black and white Vans look brand new. I have no recollection of him wearing new shoes, and that makes me sad for the young boy I see in my head.

  “You want to talk about Daisy?” Nate’s eyebrow lifts a fraction.

  “It’s the part of your childhood I don’t know.”

  He scratches his chin, twisting his lips to the side. “Doesn’t that seem odd since she was such a big part of my childhood?”

  “Really? That’s the part that stands out to you as odd? Not the fact that I’m basically a stranger to you, fifteen years younger than you, and I’ve managed to channel or see into your past with vivid detail?”

  Nodding slowly several times, gaze affixed to me with a glassy-eyed, almost contemplative expression, he wets his lips and speaks the words I’ve been dying to hear. “Purple popsicles it is.”

  My brain does a happy dance while every part of my body on the outside remains cool like it’s no big deal. It’s a huge deal!

  *

  Nathaniel Hunt Age 14

  I found my forever at fourteen. Of course I never told anyone that, not even Daisy. Fourteen-year-old boys who looked seventeen in size, played hockey with older kids, and settled disputes with their fists didn’t fall in love. Having Daisy as my best friend garnered me enough crap to last a lifetime.

  “I wish you had cable.” Daisy tossed a fast-food bag on my notebook then shoved my backpack off the foot of my twin bed and plopped down in its spot.

  “Why is that?” I steadied my geometry book to keep it from falling onto the ground.

  “Because he’s always sleeping in his recliner with the TV on when I come over, and he never hears me. If you had cable, I’d change the channel to porn so when he woke up he’d wig out about the idea of us seeing it.”

  I laughed, shoving greasy fries into my mouth. It was my first meal of the day, which sucked since it was eight o’clock at night. Daisy spending her allowance on food for me was not a highlight of my childhood, but hunger came before pride.

  “It might give him a heart attack since our food fairy only brings us fast food.” I held up my cheeseburger before shoving half of it into my mouth.

  “I put his in the fridge.” Her nose wrinkled. “The cold fries will taste disgusting.”

  “He won’t care,” I mumbled with a mouthful of greasy goodness. “It’s food. He hasn’t found a job yet, and we’ll probably be on the street in a week.”

  “Don’t say that.” The downward turn of her full lips made me want to kiss them. I loved kissing Daisy. And she liked kissing me. It was something I could give her. My shit lot in life made it hard to feel like a man, which was crazy since I was only fourteen, but I wanted to be a man for the girl who was my forever. Instead, I was a charity case along with my dad.

  “I’ll bring some apples and bananas tomorrow. I just worry they won’t be enough calories.”

  “Stop wasting your money on feeding the poor.” I tossed the bag on my already cluttered nightstand, pitched my notebook and geometry book onto the floor, and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her up to straddle my lap.

  “Don’t call yourself that.” She wrapped her arms around my neck.

  I chuckled. “Don’t worry. Mom will show up to save the day.” My hands slid into her jeans’ pockets. That was the extent of my bravery. My friends were copping feels up girls’ shirts. A few had been the lucky recipients of hand-jobs. And my older hockey buddies were going all the way. I respected Daisy too much to cross those lines. I respected her parents too much to take advantage of their daughter, especially when I knew they turned a blind eye to her charity—the charity that kept my stomach from eating itself.

  “What do you mean save the day?” She played with my hair, threading her fingers through the wayward curls.

  “Dad thinks she starts to feel guilty about abandoning me and that’s when she shows up for a few weeks, uses money from her rich boyfriend to fill the fridge and pantry, cooks a few meals, makes an appearance at one of my hockey games, and then leaves again.”

  Daisy smelled good, better than the cheeseburger, which meant a lot coming from the mind of a hungry teenager. She’d gone from wearing unisex clothes and no makeup to girly clothes that hugged her newly formed curves, shimmery lip glosses, and flowery lotions that shot my own side effects of puberty into overdrive.

  “Why does he let her come home? She’s cheating on him. I don’t understand why they’re still married.”

  “My dad says he loves her no matter what. I think he’s worried God will be upset if they get divorced. She’s always on the prayer request list at church. It’s kinda embarrassing. Like … everyone already thinks the worst about our situatio
n, why does he have to announce it to the world?”

  She giggled. “What’s the prayer? ‘Dear God, we ask that David Hunt’s wife stop cheating on him and return home to feed her family and catch up on laundry?’”

  “Nah…” my teeth dug into my lower lip as I tried to hide my grin “…just the ironing. I do the laundry, but I’ve never ironed before. I’d probably set my dad’s shirts on fire.”

  More giggles ensued.

  “Stop. No. You’re not—” I grabbed her wrist.

  She batted it away. “It’s cool.” With the hair tie she fished out of her pocket, she pulled my hair into a ponytail. It was just long enough to work.

  “It’s girly. Knock it off.” I pretended to struggle against her as she pushed my arms down and hooked her legs over them to keep me from pulling out the ponytail.

  She weighed nothing, and I had recently started lifting weights to keep up with my older teammates. We played the game that she was really restraining me, but we both knew better. I liked her squirming and bouncing around on top of me for reasons any teenage boy liked it, and she liked to pretend she was in control.

  “I need a haircut.” I grumbled as she leaned back and grinned at her work.

  “What if you’re like Mason and you cut your hair and lose all your strength?”

  “Who’s Mason?”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. “From the Bible.”

  I barked a hearty laugh. “You haven’t been to church a day in your life. And I know you’ve never read a word from the Bible because if you had done either, you would know that it’s Samson not Mason.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be a smart-ass. No one likes a smart-ass. It’s not my fault I don’t go to church, it’s God’s fault.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “It’s not God’s fault. It’s your parents’ fault for being atheists.”

  “What do you mean atheists?”

  “They don’t believe in God.”

  Her head jerked back. “That’s not true. They’re just mad at God.”

  “For what?”

  She yanked my ponytail in opposite directions to keep it from slipping out from the hair tie.

  I gave her a twisted frown.

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  It was the most ridiculous question ever. We were best friends. Whether she knew it or not, I was going to marry her some day and have three kids and a nice but modest house paid for by my sizable paycheck from the NHL. I was the only one who knew that. And that right there was proof of my secret-keeping abilities. “That’s a stupid question, Daisy.”

  “If you don’t stop calling me Daisy, I’m not going to tell you anything ever again. This is exactly why I need a real boyfriend who calls me Morgan or babe or … princess.”

  “Princess? Really? What are you? A poodle?”

  Every single day, for four years, she’d been threatening me with the “real boyfriend” thing. I no longer cared. I had her attention.

  Her smiles.

  Her kisses.

  Her spare minutes.

  Her fears.

  Her dreams.

  That was as real as real got.

  “Shut up.” She put her hand over my mouth.

  I licked it.

  “Ew …” She pulled it away.

  Before her sour face set into anything permanent, I kissed her. She kissed me back. It was clumsy at first, but then we found our rhythm. Her head moved in one direction and mine moved in the opposite as our lips figured the rest out on their own. My tongue grazed hers, and after a quick second, hers retreated like I’d tempted it with the forbidden.

  “Gross, jerk,” she said after pulling away with a breathless voice and flushed cheeks, but her smile robbed all anger from her words.

  “Tell me your secret.”

  “Promise not to—”

  “Yeah, yeah … I’m not going to tell anyone.”

  “Fine. You better not.” Her gaze sank to just below my mouth. It was an odd moment, a nervous side to my best friend that I didn’t see very often. “Two years before I was born, my mom had a baby boy. He was born dead—stillborn or something like that.”

  “Oh that’s … terrible. I can’t believe you never told me this. That’s really sad.”

  She nodded, risking a glance. “They’ve been mad at God ever since.”

  “I suppose I would be too. That sucks.”

  “Yeah.” She shrugged. “My grandma thinks we’re all going to Hell now.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well, I don’t know. It’s not like I don’t believe in God. I may not know the difference between Samson and Mason…” she grinned “…but I like the idea of God. And sometimes when I’m scared or need something really bad, I pray to him. I’m not sure I’m doing it right.”

  “What do you ask God for? My dad says we should spend more time giving thanks than asking for stuff. Like with my mom … he says he thanks God for the days she is here more than he asks God to bring her back. That’s kinda cool, right?”

  Daisy shrugged. “He’s probably right. I should say thank you. Maybe that will make him more likely to say yes when I do ask for stuff.”

  “Like?”

  Her hands slid back around my neck and her lips brushed along my ear as she whispered, “I always ask God to remember to feed you and to make sure you don’t end up homeless.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Swayze’s smile breaks my heart. When I tell her about my past, she doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just … grins. If my best friend lives inside of her soul, I wish we could talk about it. How can she remember everything but the one person who made my childhood truly special?

  “I’m scared…” Swayze’s smile fades “…because you’re adding beautiful color to everything in my head that’s black and white. But it’s like watching a movie based on actual events. You know what’s going to happen. I can’t unsink the Titanic. And Daisy …”

  “Died,” I mutter, wanting so much to connect with the memories in her mind.

  “Yeah.” She mirrors my sad smile.

  It’s impossible to not stare at her, waiting for something more than curiosity to shine in those blue eyes. A glimmer of recognition would probably stop my heart.

  “You haven’t asked me how she died,” I say, but what I think is: You haven’t asked me how you died.

  If I’m honest with myself, I’m not sure I could tell her that and keep my shit together.

  “No.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to know. Not yet … maybe not ever.”

  “Why?”

  A tense concern mars her face. “I don’t know. Is that weird?”

  I chuckle in spite of my chasm of emotions.

  Hope.

  Grief.

  Confusion.

  Clarity.

  “You’re asking the wrong person. I cleared Jenna’s clothes out of our closet, but her overnight bag that we took to the hospital is still in the back of my vehicle. My daughter bears the name of the first girl I ever loved, and I’ve accepted the fact that you’re … someone connected to my past. So…” I shake my head “…I’m not the best judge of ‘weird.’”

  One side of her mouth slants into a half smile. “My whole life, I’ve known stuff that hasn’t made sense for me to know. It stole my childhood, but I never felt truly different until you.”

  Her words make it hard to breathe. I want to whisper, Daisy. I want her to acknowledge us. I want to ask her why she was alone the night she died.

  All these years later, I feel that hole in my heart, in my soul, like no matter what happens in my life there will always be part of who I am that’s incomplete. These are the words I would tell my best friend, Daisy.

  “Well, I hope I don’t disappoint. I hope I can help you find answers.”

  “Me too.”

  “Blowout! Huge blowout! Oh goodness …” Donna holds Morgan out at arm’s length.

  I jump up and take her, also keeping her at arm’s length. �
�Oh no. Sorry, Donna.”

  Donna looks down at her poop-stained shirt. “It’s fine. I should have known when her face turned bright red that something explosive was about to happen. I’ll go get her bottle and burp cloth before I head home for a change of clothes.”

  “Sorry …” I bite my lips together. I don’t know what else to say.

  “Hush, it’s fine.” She waves off my comment while walking out of my office.

  “Here.” Swayze takes Morgan and lays her on my desk that she’s already covered with a changing pad. “And you were worried about her. Clearly, Morgan can take care of herself when strangers run off with her.” She giggles, peeling off the soiled onesie.

  “Like a skunk spraying its predator?” I laugh.

  “Exactly.” Swayze folds up the onesie and sets it aside while I ease off Morgan’s diaper.

  Squirt!

  “Shit!” I shove the dirty diaper back down over her, but not before the front of my shirt looks like a Dijon mustard bottle exploded onto it.

  Swayze’s hand flies to cover her mouth and the huge grin I know she’s hiding, eyes wide and unblinking as they flit between Morgan and me. “Language, Professor,” she mumbles behind her hand.

  She’s right. I roll my eyes. “A little help?” My attempt to sound upset is spoiled by a stupid grin crawling up my face. And it feels so damn good even if just inches below it there’s poop splattered all over my shirt and my daughter now has it up the front of her too because I instinctively shoved the dirty diaper over her to protect me.

  Swayze turns and snorts a stifled laugh as she grabs several wipes from the diaper bag. She turns back to me with tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry …” She erupts into laughter until the tears in her eyes stream down her cheeks. “Oh my gosh.” She cringes, making a quick assessment of the situation. “This is too big of a mess for baby wipes. We need a sink.”

  “The restroom is just down the hall.” I nod toward the door.