Soul Drifter (Divinely Touched Book 1)

by Dyan Brown

  I go into the kitchen and see my parents already enjoying their coffee. Dad has his tablet out and is reading over the New York Times. Mom has the local paper out, looking for the sales.

  “Good morning, Sunshine,” my dad says to me.

  “Morning, Dad,” I say as I go over to the fridge, get the orange juice out, and pour a small glass. “Happy birthday.” I kiss his cheek as I set the glass on the table.

  “So, only a week left; are you excited or nervous?” my mom asks.

  I can see the hope in her eyes that it’ll be a positive answer, and the fear I’ll break down. But I am excited, to tell the truth. Only, I feel bad about it. I feel bad that I’m excited to leave my family and start a new life in a new city with other people. I love them so much, but they’re right. It’s time for me to go. I’ve known for months this day was coming, and I’ve even cried over leaving my parents. But this is my chance to start over. Very few people from my old school went to OU, so I shouldn’t have to be that “awkward, quiet girl who lost her sister” to anyone.

  “Yeah, actually, I am getting pretty excited.” I slide into my usual spot between Mom and Dad, glancing at the empty seat in front of me. I wonder if this hole in my heart will ever heal. Taking a steadying breath, I continue. “I really can’t wait to meet April. So far, we’ve been getting along really well on Instagram. She seems nice and very straightforward, and she doesn’t seem to mind that I’m technically a freshman. She said she’ll introduce me to people when I get there.” I start filling my waiting plate with bacon, eggs, and a biscuit.

  “Where is she from again?” Dad asks from behind his coffee cup with a frown.

  “Omaha?” I reply with a mouthful of bacon. “But she says she has a brother there with her, I think… Grayson?”

  “Well, good. There will be someone to look after you girls, then,” he says with a nod of approval.

  His response strikes me as odd. I frown, alarms slightly buzzing in the back of my mind. For all my father knows, this ‘brother’ is the lord of a first-class drug ring in Norman, OK. It’s not normal for him to be so trusting. Hmmm, I should Google April’s family… I bet Dad has already done a full background on April, her brother, and their parents—even checked their credit scores. Hard to blame him for being paranoid over the only daughter he has left.

  “You want to go shopping for your new place tomorrow?” Mom pipes in. She has good ‘change the subject’ timing, which I appreciate. Had she not interrupted, it wouldn’t have been long before Dad went off on one of his female-safety speeches—a daunting and repetitive subject—the number-one reason I was allowed to bum around for nearly a year.

  “Oh, I’d love that! Target and Kohl’s?” I may have my issues, but I’m still only nineteen and I’m certainly not going to miss an opportunity to shop for my first apartment.

  “Sure, whatever you’d like, but there are a few other shops I think you’ll like, too. They’re a little more mature, but you can mix and match things to create your own style.” She smiles at me. Her eyes gleam with the possibility of having somewhere new to decorate, just like mine.

  “Sweet! Sounds like a plan. I can’t wait,” I say, wiggling in my chair with excitement for the first time since I received approval on the apartment and acceptance into OU. Can this week go any faster? Speaking of faster, I need to start getting ready. I gulp the rest of my breakfast, excusing myself.

  3

  Uncle Carl and Jason came in while I was at work. They are staying in the guest room this weekend. It is always nice to see everybody, but I’ll be so glad when it’s over. I’m glad this weekend is supposed to be about Dad. Whenever my family gets together it always seems to become about me, and I really don’t like when things are all about me. I’d be more than satisfied to hang out on the sidelines and stick my head in a book. Hopefully, that’ll be possible once I’m on my own.

  No, I remind myself. New chapter, new me.

  After my shift, I come home exhausted. It’s like people try to caffeinate for the entire weekend on Fridays. Like the buzz will last longer than four to six hours. I go to my room and lie down to rest my eyes for just a little while before dinner. As I sink into my pillow, the true weight of my fatigue washes over me, and I drift off to sleep. It’s so comfortable and silent. I’m beginning to love when I dream of nothing, just vast emptiness. It’s like being wrapped in a warm blanket with a cup of hot chocolate on a chilly night—just a comfortable oasis. Somewhere I can stay for a long time.

  All too soon, my equilibrium shifts, and I start to feel the turning in my stomach and head. It feels like waves are tossing me around. The same feeling always precedes the horrible dreams. No, not again. Not so soon! My comfortable darkness recedes. I try to reach out to grab hold of anything to stay, but the new scenery is already taking shape…

  “Dr. Taylor, to the front desk in registration. Dr. Marie-Clair Taylor, please come to the front desk.”

  My ears pick up the muffled request, and the faint aroma of lemon-scented astringent tickles at my nose. Indistinguishable sounds of a late-afternoon gameshow and an early news broadcast join beeping machines that are going off in the distance. My sight is the last to join the party.

  Dammit, I hate hospitals.

  I clench my molars as acid pricks at the base of my esophagus. I’m standing in the middle of the ER between the array of doors leading to the beds and the waiting room, with people bustling all around me. Looking around the busy waiting room at the people waiting, I feel a strong pull toward an older gentleman sitting by himself.

  I go over and sit beside him. “Hello,” I say. He doesn’t respond, so I clear my throat. “Hello, sir,” I say, stronger and sweeter, putting a light singsong to my tone.

  Still nothing. I blow a tuft of air out in annoyance.

  Looking around again, I start to notice everyone else. There’s a mom precariously filling out paperwork on one knee while her small son sits on the other. He has a floral kitchen towel wrapped around his hand. Another family sits over in a corner with three kids running around as if they’re on a sugar high—and judging by the soda cans, they are. Their parents look beyond exhausted. A few others are sitting alone. Most are filling out paperwork or have their faces glued to their phones. It seems pretty busy.

  As my eyes sweep the room again, I see a very nice-looking female doctor coming up to the nurse at the registration desk. Dr. Taylor, I guess. She has light blue hospital scrubs on under her white coat, and her blonde hair on top of her head in a tight bun, an air of efficiency surrounding her. I always think of doctors as old men, not pretty young blondes. Dr. Taylor and the reception nurse are in deep conversation and trading patient files while throwing side-glances at the noisy kids in the corner.

  I feel a quick tug at the base of my diaphragm, as if someone has a rope tied around my lungs and yanked on it. Jeeze. Now I know what a fish on a line feels like. It’s not enough to make me fall over, just enough to make me shift and confuse the heck out of me.

  “What the hell?” I mutter.

  I look around to see what’s ‘yanking my chain’ and see the older gentleman beside me is starting to slump to the side away from me. He moans so quietly I can barely hear it.

  “Oh, um, sir? Are you okay?”

  I put my hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t respond. He almost looks as if he’s falling asleep, but then his eyes roll into the back of his head and I can feel the panic rise in the pace of my heart.

  “Help! This man needs help!” I’m shouting at the people around me, but none of them seem to notice. “Doctor! This man needs you!”

  Dr. Taylor is only fifteen feet away, but she won’t look at me.

  “What the hell, people? I need help. Now. He’s, like, dying or something. Look at me!” Why isn’t she—why is no one helping? Fear feeds my anger, and they both begin to boil inside me. I try again to wake him, but it doesn’t work. “Oh my God, help,” I scream as I march over to the doctor, who’s still talking to the nurse.
I get right beside her face and yell, waving my hands like a crazed monkey. “Hey!”

  Nothing.

  “What am I, a freaking ghost?”

  What am I going to do? My brain is in overdrive, but a thought occurs to me. Hmmm, you can’t ignore everything. Here goes nothing.

  With all my strength, I punch her in the shoulder so hard the pain reverberates back through my arm and into my own shoulder. Feels like I just hit a brick wall. I shake my hand out and mouth ‘ow’, my lungs unable to make the sound a reality. Why do I have to get so violent with people in my dreams?

  Finally, Dr. Taylor frowns and glances around without seeming hurt. She acts more like a mosquito bit her than someone punched her. Finally, though, she sees him.

  “Sir? Are you okay?” She steps toward him, her frown deepening. “Patricia, what is he here for?” she calls over her shoulder.

  The registration nurse, bypassing the keyboard, starts looking through the files laid out on her desk. “That’s Mr. Eisenman. He’s here for… err…” She makes an impatient humming noise as she flips through a few pages in the file. “Indigestion pain,” she says as her eyes pop up from the file. Their eyes meet in unspoken understanding. “Aspirin and a gurney?”

  “Yes. Call in Méndez; he’s the best at cardiac on the floor,” Dr. Taylor says, head jerking in a nod. “Mr. Eisenman?”

  She is now down beside him, checking the pulse at his wrist and attaching a small, black, rectangular clip to the tip of one of his fingers. “Mr. Eisenman, have you been getting dizzy?”

  The man grunts.

  “Have you been feeling fatigued?”

  Another grunt.

  “Mr. Eisenman, I am Dr. Taylor. I believe you’re having a heart attack.”

  Just then, Patricia is beside her, handing her the aspirin and a small cup of water. Two men in scrubs follow behind with a gurney.

  “Mr. Eisenman, you need to take these.” Dr. Taylor helps him with the pills, and then the two male RNs and the doctor help him onto the rolling bed. A third man in a white coat and scrubs joins them as they start to lay the old man back.

  “Status?”

  “Pulse-ox is ninety and heartrate is 102. Patient is symptomatic tachycardia.”

  “Take him to Bay Three, and start an EKG and cardiac lab panel,” Doctor Méndez says to his team.

  “I’ll be there to assist in a few,” Dr. Taylor says to the three men heading through an archway into the ER. They pass through the auto bay-doors and disappear around a corner, the one with the coat peppering Mr. Eisenman with questions. Once they’re gone, she takes a deep breath and sighs out loud. Running her hand over her forehead and through her hair, rogue strands poke through the previously tight bun. The stress of the situation finally breaks through her professional mask.

  “Whew, right?” she mutters to Nurse Patricia, giving a relieved near smile.

  “Yeah, talk about lucky,” Patricia says, so quietly only Dr. Taylor and I can hear. “Good thing you looked over when you did. A few more minutes and…”

  Dr. Taylor nods in agreement. “Yeah, he wouldn’t have lasted much longer.” She looks back at the bay doors, her hands balled on her hips. “Patty. I hate to say it, but—”

  “I know. I’m so sorry, Clair. I should have noticed his symptoms, along with his age.” Pushing the glasses higher onto the bridge of her nose in a nervous gesture, she continued. “Should I start an incident report?”

  The doctor’s eyes flicker over the floor in thought before she replies. “No. No, I don’t think so. He’ll be fine. We got to him in time. I don’t think there’s any negligence.”

  Patricia inhales shakily. “Yes, ma’am,” she replies, her relief clear.

  “On the ball from now on, correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Of course.”

  “Anyway, call the cardiac ward and let them know they’ve got incoming. I’m sure he’ll be there soon.”

  Patricia nods, and they both head to the desk. Dr. Taylor takes some charts from the counter and follows after the four men. Nurse Patricia returns to her seat.

  You’re welcome, I say loudly, sarcasm coming from my hurt ego. I roll my eyes at myself. This wasn’t so bad. I was afraid this would be another nightmare like this morning. I smile a little to myself. I have the feeling Mr. Eisenman will be all right. Same as with Tessa…

  My eyes feel heavy, and everything starts to darken around me, my vision tunneling. I’m being sucked away from the dream and back to my bed. While it’s just as forceful as before, it’s already expected, so I just let it happen. Why doesn’t this underwater feeling make me afraid? It should, right? The only way I can explain it is that it feels like I’m trapped under a warm, roaring river, defenseless against the current. Then it feels like I hit a rock, and my eyes open to see my room around me once again. I roll from my side to my back, and I feel something warm on the side of my face as I lift my head up. Not again!

  I grab some more tissues and start cleaning up the mess, but the nosebleed has already ruined my pillow. Just then, there’s a knock at my door. Shit!

  “Just a minute,” I call out, hurrying to get the bloody tissues cleaned up before my door opens.

  “Hey, Sammy,” Uncle Carl says brightly, “I thought I’d come see if you wanted to—” Uncle Carl freezes in the doorway as if he hit a wall.

  Is it the nosebleed? I’m not sure why my nosebleed would surprise him since he has them, too.

  “Were you asleep?” His voice is accusatory, as though I were a five-year-old caught drawing on the wall with a permanent marker.

  “Um, yeah, sorry. I just had a little nosebleed while I was napping.” Oh well, it’s not as if it’s that bad. I glance down at my bloody pillow and then back to him. “I’m fine; I just didn’t want to worry anyone.”

  “What was your dream about?” he says abruptly as he steps into the room, closes the door, and sits down on my desk chair facing me. There’s a heavy tension in his eyes, and worry is spreading across his face.

  “You know, just a dream,” I dismiss, my defenses springing forward to guard from his tone. My eyebrows deepen into a frown. For some reason, I think it would be better to test the waters than to tell him straight out what I saw and how I felt, as per our usual sessions.

  “No, Samantha,” he says, his forearms resting on his knees as he leans forward. “Did your dream feel real?” He presses his hands together. “Did it feel like you were there?”

  Concern and worry surround his questions, and my tension ebbs. “There’s been a couple like that,” I say nonchalantly, “but really, I don’t see why it matters. They’re just dreams.” I pop up from my bed and walk through his faint, familiar cologne to the desk on the other side. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this? I’m really not up for a therapy session right now. Seriously. It’s been a long day.” I grab a hair tie, pulling my mass of curly hair up as I sit down on my bed, knowing he’ll continue until he makes his point, despite my words.

  “It might be something more than that,” he says, stone-faced, “but I can’t be sure until you tell me about your dreams.”

  I can tell he won’t drop this until I give in, and my eyes roll of their own accord. I walk over to my nightstand and pull out my journal. As I hand it to him, I sigh. “Here,” I say, “just read the last entry. That’ll be easier. Although, I really don’t see why this is so important to you suddenly. You’ve never been one for decoding dreams before.”

  Sitting back down on my bed, I hug my other pillow, which is free from blood. I can see the frown line deepening on Uncle Carl’s face the more he reads. If ever there were a time I wished I could read minds, it would be now. As I watch his eyes dart across my words, my insecurity has me biting the inside of my lip. The entry I wrote is so violent; I begin to wonder what he’ll think about me after reading it. Padded room for Sam? Probably.

  Uncle Carl brings one hand to his face, using his pointer and thumb to massage the bridge of his nose while his other thumb keeps h
is place in the journal. “How did she…? he mutters, so low I almost don’t hear him.

  After a few minutes, he flips back to the first page of my dream, gathers the few pages together, and rips them out of my journal.

  “Hey! What the hell?” I feel violated. My fingers tingle to grab the journal and papers from his hands. Respect for him and my upbringing are the only things that steel me in place.

  Silently, his face set in a grim line, Uncle Carl folds the papers and pockets them.

  Tears prick at my eyes, but I’m too angry to let him see me cry.

  Closing my journal with a clap, he sets it on my nightstand, runs a hand through his hair in frustration, and sighs. Turning away, he pulls out his smartphone and begins typing.

  I grab the relinquished journal, forcefully open the drawer on my nightstand, and shove it to the back, slamming everything home. “Will you please tell me what’s wrong? Did I do something I wasn’t supposed to?” My voice squeaks in frustration, worry, and now embarrassment.

  He lets out a low huff of a breath, eyes still downcast to his screen. “No, sweetie, you didn’t do anything wrong.” He gives me an intense look before cussing underneath his breath and handing me his phone. “There’s something you need to know about our family—there’s always one in every generation. I hoped when your sister died, it would die with her like it does with everyone else, that it would spare you and Jason. But I’ve heard stories of this happening before. It’s just been… But I never thought it was possible until just now. There was a chance, I guess, but after so long, I thought everything was fine. God, was I wrong.”

  As he speaks, I stare slack-jawed at the screen in my hand. His voice is hollow background noise to the roar that is sounding in my head. Staring up at me is a mugshot of Jack, the man who savagely attacked his wife in my dream, from a news website. The headline below it says:

  J. Foster Arrested for Brutal Beating, Murder of Wife; Child Witness in Protective Custody