Imprints

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  I kept the book at the store because not all imprints were as relatively easy to stomach as Victoria Fullmer’s. Last month I’d been asked to touch the bicycle of a ten-year-old girl named Alice, who had vanished while riding her birthday gift. At first there had been only elation at her new toy—until the dark-haired man had stood in her path and torn her from the bicycle. I’d fainted with her fear. Later my description of the man had allowed the police to make an arrest and had eventually led them to little Alice. Too late. The memory still haunted me sometimes when I was alone. I’d had to sleep with my parents’ book for a week—and the picture of Summer as well. I tried not to do that often, afraid my parents’ imprints would be overwritten by my own.

  Jangling bells told us someone had entered the Herb Shoppe. Jake looked at me. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. Go ahead.”

  He walked around the counter and sprinted to the double doors that joined the two stores. My father had put in those doors back when Jake had worked for both of us. Jake and I still helped each other out, using a networked computer program to keep track of sales so we could ring people up at either counter. We also shared two part-time employees, Thera Brinker, who worked early afternoons and Saturdays, and Jake’s sister, Randa, who came after school and during special weekend sales events. Thera mostly worked for me and Randa for Jake, but they crossed over when either store had a rush of customers. It worked for all of us.

  “Jake,” I called. Too late, I thought. He had disappeared, but his dark head popped back in. “I’m going for a walk, okay?”

  “No problem. I’ll keep an eye on things until Thera gets in.”

  I knew he would, but to make it easier for him, I locked my outside door on the way out, flipping over the sign that told people to use the Herb Shoppe entrance. That way Jake would be aware of any customers coming to browse my antiques, and they’d have to pass by him to leave. Only a few pieces in my inventory were really expensive, but all together, they added up to my entire future.

  The cement felt warm against my bare feet, and I relished the sensation. I couldn’t believe the outrageous shoes women put up with these days. In my late teens, when I’d gone through a shoe phase, my back had ached constantly, and once I’d spent a month in traction because of the pain, so it didn’t make sense to continue wearing shoes. But then, I didn’t understand why people would willingly take preservatives into their bodies, either. Or ruin perfectly good food in a microwave. I liked to feel the earth under me—or as close as I could get with all the cement. There was a better connection with nature that way, even in the city. Thankfully, not wearing shoes wasn’t against the law, not even while driving, though many people, including police officers, believed it was, and there were no health ordinances against bare feet. I could even enter the post office. Frankly, I was more worried about what germs my hands picked up on doorknobs than anything my feet might encounter, and I never had to deal with sweaty, stinky feet.

  I didn’t mind being different. I’d been raised that way. Other children learned their letters and mathematics. I’d learned about herbs and human nature. I’d called my adoptive parents by their first names, Winter and Summer, and the only reason I’d gone to school at all was because I’d wanted to, even though every October the principal would threaten to call child services until I took shoes to school and kept them under my desk. Summer would have been happier teaching me at home, and I was always glad that I had stayed with her that last year, when I was eleven, the year she’d died of breast cancer.

  My hand grazed the box in my pants pocket. I felt not the velvet but a flash of emotion. Victoria had loved this necklace, and she’d loved her family. Yet she’d chosen to leave them. A well of bitterness came to my heart. I’d give anything to have Summer and Winter alive and in my life. I could no more easily have left them than I could have cut off my own arm.

  What had possessed her? Was there more to her family than I’d seen? Had her father’s anger driven her to seek people who might love her unconditionally?

  It’s none of my business, I thought. My part was over. They knew she’d gone of her own will, and they knew where to begin looking. I’d even been compensated for my trouble. In a few days, I’d mail Mrs. Fullmer the necklace so she could eventually give it to her other daughter.

  Slowly, I became aware of my surroundings. I’d walked long and far, or what most people would consider far in these days of cars and motorbikes, and my bare feet had taken a path I hadn’t anticipated. I’d ended up near the Willamette River, downstream from the Hawthorne Bridge, where the bombing had taken place and where Winter had died. We’d been on the bridge in my car when the explosion collapsed the structure. I had come up from the cold, heavy depths, and he hadn’t. Thirty others had also lost their lives in the bombing. Those responsible had been punished, but the holes in the lives of those left by the dead weren’t easily filled.

  I hadn’t been this close to the river since Winter had been found a week after the bombing, and it was strange to see the rebuilding in reality instead of on TV. The construction area was fenced off, so I couldn’t go all the way to the riverbank, but I could see the bridge had come a long way in the past six months. The promise to have the bridge ready for traffic in less than three years would probably be met. Not that I’d ever had any doubts. My brother-in-law, Bret, was the director of the project, and he was conservative in his estimates. He was conservative in almost everything. That’s part of what my sister loved in him.

  My tumbling thoughts halted abruptly as I caught sight of a man wearing coarse brown pants and a white, old-fashioned, button-down shirt that looked all too familiar. He stood in front of the high chain-link fence surrounding the construction site, handing out flyers with his companions—young people of all sizes and shapes, carrying baskets and wearing royal blue T-shirts with white lettering that proclaimed Love Is the Only Thing That Matters.

  Chapter 2

  I thought it an odd place for a street meeting, until I noticed that people from the many buildings near the waterfront had apparently made this out-of-the-way construction site a gathering place for the lunch hour. Last year the bridge collapse had brought the people of Portland together, and it seemed their continuing patriotism included personally checking up on the rebuilding of the bridge.

  I felt a rush of anger that this white-shirted man would take advantage of people’s sentiments this way, but almost immediately I realized that if he truly believed his own teachings, or what I presumed must be his teachings, then what better place to search for lost souls than among the grieving or the hopeful?

  I didn’t think he was the same man Victoria had left imprinted on the necklace, though his shirt was similar, but to be sure my memory wasn’t faulty, I forced open the box in my pocket and let one finger rest on the gold chain. No, not the same guy at all. The man Victoria had seen was at least in his forties; this man was much younger. Probably not many years older than the eager helpers around him, who also didn’t match any of the faces from Victoria’s memory. The saying on the T-shirts was also different, though similar in theme, and they were a different color from the one Victoria had owned. Could it be another group?

  I hadn’t expected to see Victoria here, but I felt disappointed anyway. I wished I knew if she were still alive and happy with her choice. I wondered if she missed her parents as much as I missed Summer and Winter.

  A girl with long blonde hair and a round face devoid of makeup pushed a flyer into my hands. Glancing at it, I saw it didn’t contain the group’s philosophy as I expected but rather a price list for hand-knit sweaters, brightly colored bead jewelry, pottery, wooden-faced dolls, T-shirts, and various food items the young people carried in baskets. People from nearby offices and retail stores were buying the breads, muffins, and cookies, talking and laughing together as they pointed out features of the rebuilding. With the coming of mid-June and warm weather, this unlikely place along the river bank, practically in the shadow of the
overhead I-5, had apparently become a bustling place of conversation and commerce. When the novelty died down, the youth would probably have better luck selling their wares at the park across the river. Or maybe they already had another group there. It might be worth driving over later to see if I recognized anyone from the imprint.

  No. I needed to leave it alone. This was not my business anymore.

  Yet Mrs. Fullmer’s desperation remained with me.

  The girl who’d given me the flyer stood in front of me, waiting. She glanced at the tips of my bare toes, just visible under my khaki pants. I wore my pants long enough to make my lack of shoes less noticeable, but it was the only thing I habitually did to make others more at ease with my lifestyle choice. My toes were dirty and dusty, but I was accustomed to that. Besides, they were easily washed. I smiled at the girl, who looked rather gypsy-like in the colorful skirt that didn’t match her blue T-shirt.

  She smiled back, a beatific smile that held so much hopeful innocence that I wondered if she’d even finished high school or held a job or seen anything of the world before giving her life to this organization.

  I watched as the girl drifted toward the man in the white shirt, touching his arm so briefly it must have felt like the brush of a bird’s fragile wing. Her mouth moved, and they both looked at me. I wondered what he saw. I was thirty-three, older than he was by three or four years at least, but with my average height, short mop of red and brown hair, slender frame, and myriad of freckles, I knew I looked younger. I’d never regained the weight I’d lost when Winter died, though I ate almost constantly. Tawnia joked that my food was too close to its natural state to stay with me for long.

  Because I wanted to talk to the man, I stayed where I was and waited for him to approach. But what would I say? I couldn’t exactly ask if he’d seen Victoria Fullmer. Or could I? Even if she was known to him, it was likely he didn’t know her real name. They probably called her Flower or Snowflake or Rainbow. I knew from my own experience that people such as these shed their real names as easily as they shed clothing. My adoptive father had legally changed his name from Douglas Rayne to Winter Rain when he’d met Summer. His friends had called him Winter for years anyway because his hair had gone completely white in his mid-twenties, and officially changing his name had simply marked his commitment to Summer. A commitment he’d kept, even through the twenty-odd years he’d lived after her death.

  The white-shirted man now stood before me, the tails of his crisp shirt occasionally fluttering as they caught a stray breeze. He was broader than my first impression had indicated, and a bit shorter, though still taller than average—a physique that might go easily to flab if he wasn’t careful. He had tan skin, slightly receding brown hair pulled back in a five-inch ponytail, and kind brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. When he lifted a hand in greeting, the long, cuffed sleeve of the shirt fell back, revealing a silver timepiece strapped around a hairy, muscled arm.

  “Hello,” he said. “I think you are looking for me. I’m Dar, director of Harmony Farm. My people call me Director Dar. You have a question, don’t you? Please be at ease. We always have room for the weary.”

  Maybe reading Victoria’s imprints had taken more from me than I’d realized. Then I shook myself. No, this was his way of finding converts, of targeting people who fit his criteria of lost souls. Unlike the others around me, I was alone and I wasn’t buying food. Plus, I wore no shoes. In fact, that alone must be the reason they had targeted me. Yet he didn’t really see me. He hadn’t noticed my eyes.

  I decided to play along with the misconception, to take advantage of his impression of me. “Your watch,” I said. “It reminds me of one my father owned. May I?” The only other thing I might be able to touch would be his shirt, and, with a few exceptions such as my mother’s afghan, clothes weren’t good at holding imprints. I didn’t know if that was because they were so often washed or because people lost interest in them so quickly.

  A line of puzzlement creased his wide brow, but he held out his arm, making sure the sleeve fell back to expose the timepiece. It was probably too much to ask him to take it off for me, so I reached out two fingers, placing one on the glass face and the other on the metal band.

  Director Dar stared at me, but he didn’t flinch or draw away. The scene came almost instantly:

  Dar opening a door with a key. A dark, musty room. Light falling on a man’s thin, eager face. “You’re letting me go?”

  “Of course, Inclar. You’re my brother. I can’t stand to see you hurting.”

  “They’re all your brothers.” Spoken with an underlying bitterness.

  “Not by blood like we are.”

  The thin man nodded. “Come with me, then.”

  “No,” said Dar. “My place is with Founder Gabe now. He needs me to help him run the farm. Where will you go?”

  “Back to Portland, of course. To be close to Sarah’s grave.” The thin man put a hand inside his clothes and brought out the watch. “Take this. To remember me. It’s all I have left of Sarah.”

  “I can’t take it. You loved it enough to keep it all these months.”

  “I want you to have it.”

  Stunned with this generosity, Dar accepted the treasured timepiece and watched the man slink into the darkness. The image faded.

  “Your brother,” I whispered. Apparently they had both been a part of the organization, but Inclar had not remained a true follower.

  “What did you say?” Director Dar’s face tensed slightly, but I wasn’t sure if that was because of my words or because he’d just noticed my strange eyes.

  “I said, ‘Thank you, director.’ Your watch is very nice, but I guess it really doesn’t look like my father’s after all.”

  A smile relaxed his face. “Would you like to hear more about Harmony Farm?”

  “I had a friend once who listened,” I said, making my words soft and distracted. “She was a sweet girl, Victoria Fullmer. I really liked her. She went away. Maybe she went with you.”

  “I haven’t heard of a Victoria, but many have joined us.” He shuffled the flyers in his hand and came up with another one, this one glossy instead of plain paper. “Our commune is in a beautiful location outside Rome.”

  “Where?”

  “Rome, Oregon. Southeast of Burns. Close to the Oregon-Idaho border.”

  I nodded. Now that he mentioned it, I recalled something about the name coming from geological formations that reminded people of Roman ruins, but I’d never been there.

  “We’re always looking for those who wish to live a simple life,” Director Dar added.

  “What religion are you?”

  “We don’t subscribe to any religion. We are simply a group of people who share common ideals. We serve others, work together, help each other. We value nature. We love everyone.”

  I smiled a real smile this time. “You sound exactly like my parents. But they didn’t go away to some farm. They loved everyone right here in the city. They helped a lot of people.”

  Dar returned my smile. “Some people are strong enough to do that, but with all the trouble in the world, it’s increasingly difficult to do. Many people these days crave a community around them, a family who lives and believes as they do. We provide that. To you, too, if ever you want it.”

  “Thank you,” I said, glad for the memories he’d evoked of Winter and Summer rather than his offer.

  “We’ll be here for several days more, if you want to learn more.”

  I nodded and walked away, but an approaching figure attracted my attention. Another disciple with a basket was emerging from a white van parked some distance away, a young man with ultra short blond hair. A shock of recognition flooded my body. I slid my fingers over the chain in my pocket. Yes, the face belonged to one of the T-shirted youths in Victoria’s imprint. That meant these people were the same ones who had enticed Victoria away from her home and family.

  I reached for my cell phone, knowing I had to make the call
.

  Mrs Fullmer answered. “It’s Autumn Rain,” I said. “I’m down by the Hawthorne Bridge. Not the park side. On the side by my store. There’s a group here. I think they’re the people your daughter left with.”

  “I’ll be right there!” Her voice had gone from sad to breathless in the space of my few sentences.

  “No! I mentioned Victoria’s name, but they didn’t seem to recognize it. I think you should go through the police. Or a private detective. That would carry more weight with these people. But if you tell the police I identified them because of an imprint—well, I don’t know how they’ll take that.” Actually, I knew. They’d laugh in her face. A private detective, however, might pursue the case just for the money.

  “I’ll figure out what to do,” Mrs. Fullmer said. “But I want to see them for myself.”

  I hung up with foreboding. Mrs. Fullmer had been excited to receive the information—too excited. Though I’d emphasized calling for help, she might jump in her car and drive down here, perhaps bringing her stern husband along in the hopes of cowing the disciples into talking about Victoria. I wondered if Mr. Fullmer owned a gun. For the sake of Director Dar and the others, I hoped not.

  To make the call, I’d withdrawn from where the youths were pushing their wares, hiding partially behind the pillars that held up the freeway. From where I stood it was clear that the lunch crowd was rapidly dispersing, and already a few of the basket-laden youth were returning to the van with their wares. Within fifteen minutes, only Director Dar was left. He gazed around at the construction, as though considering it.

  What was keeping him from joining the others? Go, I thought. Before the Fullmers get here. Though I wanted Victoria to be found, I didn’t want to be the cause of trouble. If Dar hurried and left, the Fullmers would be forced to talk to the police and let them handle the situation.

  I spied a movement between me and the riverbank, near another pillar. Dar saw it, too, and started walking toward it. I ducked behind my pillar and waited a moment.