My Soul Immortal

by Jen Printy

  “Are you sure?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “What time?”

  “Starts at six thirty. Bayside Gallery.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Perfect. See you tonight.”

  I arrive at work a few minutes late. I shoot Ed a greeting glance, then walk toward the back in silence, my head low.

  “Everything okay?” Ed asks. His eyes are like hot irons on the back of my head.

  “Yup,” I say, retreating into the office. I toss my knapsack under the desk and let out a sigh. Ed pinpointed the problem—I have no idea if everything is all right. I’m a rookie. I could have done something stupid, screwed everything up with Leah, and have no idea. I consider the possibility that Ed might know something about the subject of women. I get the distinct feeling something is going on between Sally and him. Ed must have some skills in the modern dating arena, at least more than I do.

  I march to the front. Ed is still in his usual spot behind the corner, reading the newspaper. “What do you know about women?” I blurt.

  Ed raises one eyebrow. “Women? Ahhh, it’s that young lady you went riding with the other day, isn’t it? I knew you liked her.”

  I grimace. I’m usually so much better at hiding my emotions. Deep in my core, a siren blares. I don’t like being an open book for everyone to read—except when I’m with Leah.

  I realize Ed’s still talking. “… and the way you’ve been acting this morning. Ha. It all adds up.” He snickers. “My only advice is don’t keep anything from her. Women know when you’re not being honest. Lost my first wife that way. Bought a boat she didn’t think we could afford, hid it at a buddy’s house during the off season. Understand, the boat was a beauty.” He closes his eyes and smiles. “Twenty-two-foot Grady-White. One-hundred-fifty-power Evinrude. All the bells and whistles.” Ed looks at me. His pleasant expression fades to a more sober one. “Shouldn’t have bought it, but, man, that baby was beautiful. ‘Deal breaker,’ she called it. Couldn’t blame her. My mistake taught me to be honest to a fault. That’s the reason I lost my second wife.” He pats me on the back. “My advice: Don’t screw up.”

  Feeling more helpless than I did when I arrived, I go back to worrying while I shelve Austen and the Brontë sisters.

  Around noon, Sally stops in. She leans against the counter, watching me. “Are you all right?” she asks.

  “Lady trouble,” Ed chirps.

  Sally rolls her eyes. “Oh, good Lord, what did he tell you? Never mind, I can imagine. Any way I can help?”

  A resigned sigh breaks free from my lungs. “There’s this girl.”

  “You got it bad,” Ed says with a laugh.

  “I haven’t been completely honest with her. Past baggage.”

  Ed sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Strike one.”

  Sally ignores him, her sharp brown eyes still trained on me. “Girls aren’t mind readers, dear. Do you want to tell her?”

  “I don’t know if I have a choice,” I say.

  “Well, then tell her.” Sally gives me an encouraging smile.

  “That’s what I told him,” Ed chimes in.

  Sally shoots him a dirty look. “I’m sure, along with God knows what else. Look at him. Poor boy. He thinks he doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.”

  He shrugs. “What he needs to do is man up and ask that girl out. She’s a keeper.” His attention turns back to me. “Three words for ya. Lou’s Lobster Trap. Grab a couple of their famous subs…”

  “No!” Sally says, horrified by the suggestion.

  We both look at her, perplexed.

  “Men,” Sally grumbles. “Have you ever been to Lou’s?”

  I shake my head.

  “The employees all wear lobster costumes for the tourists. In the kitchen, there’s a fridge and a deep fryer. Not Maine cuisine at its finest.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Ed asks. “Not every restaurant can be five stars. Snap! Snap! You just got trapped. Best slogan ever.”

  “May thirteenth!” She points her pudgy finger at his chest.

  “What about it?” he asks, his eyes wide.

  “Our one-year anniversary! You took me to Lou’s for a soggy fried-fish sub and potato chips,” Sally says, then purses her lips and gives Ed a dry stare.

  I shift from side to side, backing out of the line of fire. Sally’s glare reminds me of my mother’s the day she found out I was one of the boys responsible for cutting up horsehair and strewing it all over the dance floor at the spring social. The women were itching for hours, and we laughed for days, until my sister Ruth ratted us out. That little prank was the end of my summer fun.

  “Coward,” Ed whispers, looking at me from the corner of his eye.

  The power of invisibility would come in handy right now. Or teleportation. I took on a towering mountain named Tank without a second thought, but I’m afraid of this five-foot-four-inch woman and that glare. At this moment, she looks far more dangerous than any Tank.

  “I thought it would be romantic. That’s where I took you for our first date,” Ed defends himself.

  “Exactly! And it wasn’t!” Her attention turns back to me. “Tell her, Jack. And I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  As Sally turns to leave, an irked Ed calls out after her, “Hey, what about lunch? Our lunch!”

  “Not today,” she says and heads out the door.

  Ed leans against the counter, arms propping up his chin, and looks over at me.

  “Are you sure you two aren’t married?” I ask.

  “Nope, just sounds like it. We’re dating.”

  “She’s angry.”

  “Yup. She’ll get over it. All joking aside, tell that girl the truth.” Ed pats me on the shoulder then disappears into the back room, leaving me to my thoughts and the ominous lie hanging over my head.

  Tell her. But how?

  With Ruth, it had been simple. I was ten and fearless. I never got hurt and never got sick. My mum called me her healthy little colt. One afternoon, Ruth caught me climbing the old Douglas fir at the edge of the Edmunds’ field, higher than Mother allowed. I’d been scolded about my adventurous nature too many times to count.

  Ruth’s concerned shouts made me scramble through the branches, faster and higher. She was two years older than I was and acted like my keeper. It made me want to push the boundaries. Every time she yelled, I climbed higher, until I was very close to the tree’s top.

  She screamed that she was getting Mother. I remember laughing and scrambling one branch higher. That was my folly. An earsplitting snap split through the air. I tried to grab the passing branches, but nothing stopped my fall. My only thought was Ruth was right. My back hit the ground with a deep thud and sent the air rushing out of my lungs. Blackness pressed in.

  When my eyes did blink open, Ruth was by my side, crying. She said she thought I was dead. At first, so did I. Despite the pain and shock, my body had taken no lasting damage. A cut across my shoulder and a couple of bruises that healed and faded away in minutes was all I had to show for my fall.

  Once the fact that I should’ve been dead sank in, we agreed never to tell a living soul about how different I was. However, Ruth was convinced that my affliction was a gift from God. But even then, I couldn’t have disagreed more. It made me different. A freak. Damned. Even so, after that incident, Ruth and I were close, bonded by my secret.

  I have to tell her tonight. I can’t wait any longer. It’s not fair to her. Once the reception’s over, I’ll spill all my secrets to her. A lump forms in the pit of my stomach. If she doesn’t believe me, I’ll show her somehow. I hope I won’t have to resort to diving from a tree. There are plenty of secluded woods on the outskirts of the city, and it worked before. I’ll do whatever I need to and pray to God it doesn’t scare her away.

  I arrive at the gallery late, which seems to be the theme of the day. A last-minute customer kept me talking about John Keats and his influence on the Romantic movement w
ell past closing time, then he had the nerve to not buy the book I spent a half hour looking for because he was sure he could find it online for a couple bucks cheaper.

  The gallery resides in a row of art-deco-style buildings respectfully renovated to pay homage to the era. Light radiates through floor-to-ceiling windows onto the street. The place is jam-packed with guests sipping wine and eating hors d’oeuvres. It’s quickly evident I’m underdressed for the occasion. This isn’t the “jeans and T-shirt” kind of crowd.

  Nervous anticipation boils to the surface. I weave through the mass of people, catching glimpses of color and texture hanging on the walls, but I stay focused. I spot Leah. She’s talking with an elderly couple at the back of the gallery. I press on through the crowd, working my way closer. Finally standing behind her, I wait for my turn. Soon, the man and his wife thank her for her time and move on to look at more paintings. Leah turns, and those beautiful eyes meet mine.

  “It looks like the show’s already a success,” I say, raking my fingers nervously through my hair.

  At first, she just stares at me. Her lips press into a hard line. It’s obvious she doesn’t want me here. Grady was wrong. “What are you doing here?” she finally asks.

  “I’m sorry. Grady invited me. It looks like I shouldn’t have listened to him. I’ll leave.” My voice sounds tired and weak.

  “I wanted to invite you, but…” She takes a deep breath. In her eyes, I can see she’s made a decision. “Will you come with me? There’s something I need you to see.”

  I nod.

  She takes my hand. Her skin is soft, but her fingers are ice cold. Tightening her grasp, she leads me back through the crowd to the opposite corner of the gallery then through a door with AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL printed across it in bold red letters. A quick glance tells me we’re clearly in a storage area. The room is brightly lit. Framed artwork, all waiting for their debuts, lines the walls and covers the counters.

  Leah stops. Moisture threatens to spill from her frightened eyes. As she turns from me, she says, “I had them take this down. I didn’t expect you to come tonight, but if Grady had seen it…” She ends with a labored breath. “I wanted to tell you this morning, but I couldn’t find the words. And those busybodies.” She sighs then points.

  I follow her gesture. Before me is a portrait of a man with sable hair and a pronounced square jaw. Light-blue eyes, the color of the summer sky, look back at me. He’s dressed in a double-breasted brown frock coat with a cream waistcoat. A hint of a crisp white shirt peers out from behind a black ascot tied around his neck. All the details are there in each brushstroke, including the sickle-shaped birthmark over his left eye.

  “I painted this last year,” she says.

  I run my trembling fingers along my identical blemish and stare at a portrait of myself—the me of decades ago. My breaths come rapid and deep, and the room tilts and spins. A surge of queasiness rolls over me. My mind argues with my eyes. Even though the proof is staring back at me, nothing makes sense. “How?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve dreamt of him since I was thirteen. Has Grady told you I had cancer?”

  “Your mum did.”

  “I’m surprised. She hates talking about it.” Leah takes a moment to find her words. “One night, there were complications with one of my chemo sessions. I almost died. This man came to me in a dream, told me to wait for him. I survived that night because of that dream, because of you. It is you, isn’t it?”

  I don’t answer.

  Eyes closed, she continues, “After that night, I dreamt of you often. In one dream, we were at a ball. You danced every dance with me. In another, we stood under trees. It was warm, summer, I think. You asked…” Her eyes snap open, and her gaze falls to the floor. She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to. I know this story’s ending. I asked Lydia to marry me under the elms.

  As my hands begin to tremble, I fold my arms and shove my hands in my armpits. No flashbacks now, please. Drawing in a long breath, I attempt to calm myself. I blink several times, but the painting’s depiction doesn’t change.

  “Not all the dreams are pleasant. There’s a reoccurring one that I don’t understand. I hoped you would. I’m running in the pouring rain through a field, trying to find you, but I never do. When I wake, I always have trouble breathing. I don’t know why.”

  “I need to get out of here,” I blurt in a hoarse whisper. Darkness crowds in, and I wrestle against it, trying to stay in the present.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Maybe I really am—”

  One of the gallery workers steps in, and Leah falls silent. Upon seeing us, she hustles out, keeping her eyes glued to the floor.

  I can’t tell Leah anything here. We have no privacy. Besides, the flashback that threatens harks back to the episodes I had directly after Lydia’s death. I can’t let everyone see me in all my freakish glory. Nothing says nutcase like a man crumpled over, shaking like a cat in a tumbling dryer.

  “Can you leave now?” I’m able to force out.

  Leah doesn’t say a word, only shakes her head.

  “When?”

  “You don’t have to come back. I know this all sounds crazy. I’ve heard it all before.” Her voice is steely.

  Does she think I’m showing her pity?

  She turns and starts to walk away from me. No! My inner voice growls, and I manage to overpower the flashback, at least for the moment. Reaching out in desperation, I grab her shoulders and twirl her back toward me.

  “Listen. I’m not leaving you. I need fresh air to clear my head. That’s all. Then we can figure this out together. Okay?”

  She nods. The tears well and start to trickle down her cheeks.

  I wipe the droplets away with my fingers then lean in to kiss her, but she looks down, and my lips meet her forehead.

  “When?” I ask.

  “Nine.”

  “I’ll be back then. Will you wait for me?”

  “Yes, I’ll wait.”

  With her reassurance, I rush from the storage room into the gallery. My eyes dart to the paintings around me. The artwork had faded into the background during my search for Leah. Snapshots of the past look back—my life with Lydia. In her vibrant palette, Leah has captured simple scenes. An afternoon under the elms. A silhouetted couple secluded in the shadows. A room filled with dancing couples in swirling colors of lavender, ruby, and royal blue. An aerial view of a man in the rain, looking skyward. And although his features are hidden by shadow, Leah captured my anguish perfectly.

  My nerves stretch to their breaking point, threatening to shatter. The trembling travels from my hands to my arms. I need to get out of here. I shove my way toward the door, through the droning crowd. In my rush, I bump several of the guests. Irritated exclamations follow me. Apologizing, I keep moving for the exit and the solitude of the night.

  Outside, the sea of blackness squeezes in around me. Dazed, I draw in air, filling my lungs in sharp breaths. I thought I had it all figured out. I didn’t. The paintings are indisputable proof of that. And her words: I dreamt of him since I was thirteen. Dreamt of you. How is that possible? With shaky fingers, I rub my temples and begin to walk, fighting against each impending flashback. Strangely enough, the flashback retreats until nothing is left but a residue of a headache. I’ve never been able to control them before. The past has always reigned over me.

  At the water’s edge, I stop. My mind strives to find one logical scenario. I dive down one rabbit hole after another, but each serpentine path leads to the same conclusion, which I can’t allow myself to believe. Life doesn’t work that way, at least not my life. Happy endings are made for fairy tales and legends, not reality. My feet begin to move again, aimlessly.

  As I resurface from the tangled thoughts, I find myself on a deserted street. A lone well-lit building stands amid the vacant lots lining both sides of the street. The fiery-red painted bricks stand out in contrast to the sparse, dark surroundings. A light over the old rustic door illuminates the go
ld lettering. Brian Ború Public House. The fresh air isn’t helping. Maybe a beer will.

  The pub is packed with regulars exchanging friendly banter. The ceiling is lined with aged wooden crossbeams, and the walls are the original brick and fieldstone. The pub feels as though it were transplanted from the motherland piece by piece.

  I slip onto the stool. The bartender, whose tawny hair is formed into short spikes, comes by to place a small square napkin in front of me.

  “Prize Old Ale,” I say.

  “ID?” His voice is smothered with a thick Irish brogue.

  I grumble and dig my license out of my wallet then toss it on the counter.

  The bartender studies it skeptically, shrugs, and hands it back. “Sorry. Just doing my job. We don’t carry Prize. Can I get you something else?”

  “Guinness.” I heave a heavy sigh.

  The sapphire-eyed devil’s voice whispers in my ear, “Now that’s funny. What are you? One hundred and seventy? And you’re still getting carded. That’s got to suck.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Cold flicks the scruff of my neck. I wheel around. The sapphire-eyed devil stands in front of me, looking at me down a long, straight nose. The suggestion of a smirk on his thin lips argues that he’s amused.

  “What the…?”

  “Beer first, questions later. Life’s uncertain.” He gestures to the bartender and takes the stool next to mine. “Scotch. Oldest you got.”

  I glower at him. “I remember you. France. 1914.”

  “You owe me one Ben Franklin.” He smiles but doesn’t meet my glare.

  “I want you to stay away from that girl. Stay away from Leah.”

  “And what if I don’t? You’ll do what? Kill me?” His eyes glide to mine, and the rich tone of his laughter sings over the chatter.

  “Just like you killed them, if I could.”

  He studies me from under hooded brows. “Who?”

  “The couple at the bar.”

  “I didn’t touch them,” he answers, curling his upper lip and spitting each word through clenched teeth.

  “You were watching them, left when they did, and you were seen with them right before they died.”