by A.R. Rivera
Steaming Pile Of Awesome
I don’t know how long I slept, but it feels like my eyes have just barely closed when Abi wakes me with a hot mug of coffee and her warm smile.
Seeing her this way, so alive with obvious joy, I moan—half in longing and half in frustration for not getting the oh-by-the-way-I’m-not-your-husband-but-don’t-be-mad conversation out in the open.
“Abi.”
“What’s up?” She’s sinking onto the bed, maneuvering over a pile of pillows while balancing her coffee. When she turns to face me, her eyes are all dreamy-looking.
“Why did you to marry me?”
The gleaming light in her face fades. She clears her throat. “Don’t pretend that you’re him.”
“You knew?”
“You think I don’t know my own husband? You guys look alike, but you’re far from identical.”
She’s smiling as she asks this rhetorical question but there’s a well of sadness beneath the surface. As many times as I’ve disappointed my own version of Abi, identifying her disappointment comes easy.
“I figured you out.” She sighs and sips her coffee. “Now, brass tax. What can we learn from each other? Oh, you may find it interesting that you’ve been asleep for twenty-two hours.”
“Twenty-two?” I set my coffee mug on the nightstand and stare at it debating on whether to get up or not. I fell asleep in the underpants she gave me.
It’s not anything she hasn’t seen before. I decide, and get up like there was never any question. “No way it was that long.”
“Way.” She disputes. And I’m sure we’ve moved onto other topics, but then she starts rambling.
“It was weird; Bear is trained not to leave the yard, but he ran off the same way he does when—” She cuts out. Takes a deep breath. “He can sense when the gateway opens.
“At first, I thought you know, the way you walked right in—I mean, what else was I supposed to think? I assumed you were mine and I kissed you.” A palm rests fretfully over her forehead. “I’ve never met another one before.”
She hops from the bed and looks on while I stuff myself into pants. Her pencil brow is furrowed.
“Are you alright?”
“Fine.” She stomps her foot, though, so I know it’s a lie.
“You can talk to me, you know.”
Tears well in her eyes as she watches me throw on my tee shirt. The stink of sweat is gone, replaced with flowery laundry detergent.
“I’ll make breakfast if you’re hungry.”
“It’s not like we’re strangers, Ab. Just say what’s on your mind.”
The well spring overflows. Tears cascade down her pink cheeks. “I really thought... that he was back.”
“He’s a lucky bastard. I wish I was him.”
She crumples into a heap on the bed. I want to comfort her, but, the air feels... uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have said that.
“Where I’m from... in my life, I was too stupid to keep you.”
A woeful moan sounds through the covers she’s got her face buried in.
“It’s not like you cheated, Ab.”
She barks a short laugh. “Nope, it’s not cheating if you think you’re kissing your husband.” She pulls her head back to glower. “Why didn’t you stop me?”
I don’t know if it’s her devastated look or my guilty conscience, but I do the exact thing I shouldn’t. I answer honestly.
“Because I love you, Ab, in every life and every world.”
She hangs her head, again. Her shoulders shake.
“I was just trying to keep your dog from being run over. I wasn’t expecting to find the one person I wanted to see more than anyone, and when I did, I wanted you. More than I wanted to do the right thing. If my keeping quiet bothers you so much, I’ll explain it to your husband, personally.”
I don’t think I’d be angry with myself, but then, that really depends on how I—well, he—might look at the situation. I try to imagine how I’d feel if I were the one to come home and find my Abi with— Nope. Can’t see it.
It was only a kiss. Well, I also saw her naked. But she was only helping me shower because I was too warped to do it myself.
No amount of reasoning is going to make it better. So when Abi moves to the bathroom to gather herself, I move as fast as my time-warped brain will allow. Getting dressed and loaded down with my gear, snatching a cup of coffee and a bagel from a box on the counter near a fruit basket.
Stepping out onto the porch, I hear her, call my name.
“G, wait!”
She pulls me back inside. All I can do is stare at her beautiful eyes. They’re still wet, but this time from the shower. She opens her mouth and shuts it. Her full lips pucker in concentration.
“Remember to stay away from other bearers.” Her brow furrows as if she’s surprised herself.
I’m surprised period. “Come again?”
Shaking her head, she answers. “It’s creates a… sort of struggle.”
“How?”
She blinks and shakes her head. “One set of stones is always more powerful than the other and the stronger stones absorb the weaker ones if they get too close.”
Does having the weaker Threestone mean you’re going to lose them? I think of my fight with Daemon on the roof top in Manhattan. He seemed much stronger and moved way too fast for me to keep up.
Is that why? Because the set of stones I carried wasn’t as strong as the set he had?
“Okay . . .” the acknowledgment draws out while I think. “How am I supposed to beat Daemon?”
Abi gives the cutest whisper of a gasp and bites her bottom lip, then runs a hand through her wet hair, tugging it back from her face. Her skin looks so soft. She’s always looks so beautiful in the morning.
“You better come back inside. We have a lot to talk about.”
Schooling Me
The day has zoomed by.
We couldn’t have been talking for more than a few hours, but the sun is disappearing on the horizon when Abi opens the curtain over the back door to release Bear into the yard.
I’ve learned more in talking with her than in all the time spent using the Threestone.
“They’re weird, right?” She says for the tenth time and it’s still adorable, the way she crinkles her nose.
I nod, stretching, and add, “For sure.”
“Have you noticed any changes in your appearance since you started using them?” She asks, sitting back down beside me on the cream-colored, overstuffed couch scattered with bright green pillows.
I watch her tuck her hands between her bent knees. She’s tilting towards me and I automatically lean in, closing the gap between our shoulders as I answer.
“Changes, like what?”
“Well, like, did you get a sunburn when you were living outside in that ancient world?”
I shake my head. “Not once. And I noticed the air felt cooler, too, when the stones were out.”
Abi nods knowingly. “My G says they absorb everything. He says having them exposed to the sunlight means they’re absorbing all of that heat and energy. He says it’s like sitting in a dark room without windows even though you’re outdoors. Lack of sunlight produces vitamin D deficiencies. It also makes your hair darker and your skin more pale.”
“Reduces your risk of skin cancer to nil.”
She chuckles and shakes her head.
“Anything else I should know?” I ask.
Abi’s small smile fades. “Tons, but I don’t know if I should share.” She shrugs. “No one ever told me what not to say if I ran into an alternate version of my husband.”
“Is it really all that difficult?” I ask, finding that I’ve moved. We’re not just grazing our shoulders now and again. We are sitting close together, like two people who are genuinely attracted to each other.
“What?” Abi looks up and her face is so beautifully close that I can’t recall what I was going to say.
“I don�
��t know.” I shake my head, silently apologizing for the mental gap. “How long has he been gone?”
“He was supposed to be back in three weeks. Six weeks I could understand, you know, with time being relative. But it’s been seven months. Without a word.”
“He probably just lost track of time. You know, the longer you’re in a plane, the more accustomed you become.”
She nods. “I know. But seven months? Well, he did pop-in unexpectedly a few weeks after he left. But he only talked to Eli and left again. So, technically, it’s less. But it’s not like him.”
“Where did he go?”
She pats my knee and slips from the couch. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
I follow Abi down the toast-colored hallway. The color makes me think of skim milk in coffee. Abi faces a door directly across from her bedroom and walks in.
The room is small and set up like an office, only there’s no desk. There’s a bare mattress on rails in one corner and thick wood blinds covering a small window. The walls of the room are bare as well, the color matching the light almond tones of the living room and her bedroom.
One wall has a cork board bolted onto it. The board is covered with pieces of paper; drawings of things I recognize as being from my father’s box. Diagrams and hand-scrawled notes make up a rough timeline with explanations of planes this version of me has visited. Some of the descriptions are the very same I’ve used to describe my own adventures.
Ice World—Doyen is an asshole.
World Two—Daemon got away.
Native World—found the boy from my dream.
The lettering is all capitals as if these small things are very important. His writing looks very close to mine, except he uses pointed W’s, whereas mine have always been round.
There’s a picture I remember finding in the box my father left me. One of a dirty Jeep parked in an empty lot beside a brick wall. I remember finding it that day in the hospital and recognizing it as the very same car that was parked in the lot that night Daemon found me. A strange clue in the cyclical mystery my life has become. My fingers brush the edge of the identically penciled portrait. I left mine with Eli and he lost it.
“I guess in this world, Eli’s place wasn’t ransacked by Homeland Security.”
“Oh no, it was.” Abi’s standing beside me, watching closely as I survey her husband’s workspace.
“You’re working with Eli, too?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do you have this? Wasn’t it inside the box I left with Eli?”
She shakes her head. “Whatever he left with Eli was taken, but it wasn’t much. He left the important stuff with me.”
“Because he can trust you to keep his secrets.”
She smiles wistfully, muttering, “We trust each other implicitly.” Raising a pointed finger at the notes on Ice World, Abi dictates, “This is where he went. He was planning to work with some people he knows over there. He had a plan to take out that Doyen guy.”
“Doyen is an asshole,” I repeat, pointing at the words written on the page. “Well, he was. I killed him.”
Abi’s forehead wrinkles. “You did?”
“Yeah.” I nod and begin explaining how I decided on the fly to make the kill. “I lost my shit, you know? Grabbed him when his back was turned... and didn’t let go.”
She gasps and grips her hands together.
“I know it sounds bad, but—”
“He was another version of Daemon.” She says.
Now I’m the one who’s surprised. “How did you know?”
“G told me.”
“Oh. Of course, he did.”
“He was there once before and had some kind of run-in with him and barely escaped. He was returning to kill him... but you said you’ve already done it? How can that be?”
“It’s probably not the same plane,” I answer, thinking of Doyens smug face when he divulged the reason he built the android commanders with a face eerily similar to mine. He used the face of a man who betrayed him and the man—maybe my alternate—paid with his life.
“No, probably not,” Abi says, sawing her bottom lip with her teeth.
“I was in that icy plane for three days, until... you know. Then, after, I jumped without thinking and ended up in that slow-moving native plane until a thunder storm sent me here.”
I wait for her to say something, to acknowledge that she’s listening but she seems lost. So I keep talking.
“What was your husband’s plan, exactly?”
“The same as yours, I suppose.”
That doesn’t mean much. “Humor me.”
“To kill Daemon, of course, and every version of him that exists to prevent them from gathering the stones.”
I’ve been to how many worlds now? Daemon’s had a head start in every one of them.
How many planes can there possibly be? Eli thinks there are at least eleven, but says, theoretically, there could be thousands.
“What happens if he gathers them all?” This was the question that turned Eli ghost-white.
“He doesn’t need them all.”
“What do you mean? If not the stones, what does Daemon need?”
She sighs in a way that makes me think she’s tired of talking. “To die, G. Daemon and all his alternates need to die.”
Taking in the weight of her statement, I think on what I set out to do in the beginning of this journey. I started with the intention of catching and killing the man that murdered my father. Having that murder on the mind made it easier to attack Doyen the moment I realized who he was. I couldn’t fathom walking away from a man that bragged about killing my alternate, possibly the only version of me that got anything right where Abi was concerned.
So, I know why Daemon needs to die. It was the same reason Doyen needed to die. Inside and out, the man was evil. The one thing I’m not convinced of forms my next question.
“Why?”
Her eyes widen. “What do you mean, ‘why’?”
“I know why I want to kill the version of Daemon that I’m after. He murdered my father in cold blood and shot me. Hell, he might even be the same version that me, myself, and I are after.” There’s too many he’s and him’s—it’s confusing. “What I want to know is why you want him dead. Can you tell me, specifically, what did he do to your husband?”
Abi’s stunned expression is usually accompanied by a covering of her mouth with her palm, but this version squares her shoulders. Shifting from indignant to shocked in a flash.
“He killed your father? How? When? What year was it?”
“Twenty-twelve. Strangulation. Dad knew he was—”
A loud knock at the door halts my explanation.
Abi shakes her head. Seeming flustered, she looks out the window of the office and remarks how quickly the dark has moved in, and then mutters “What time is it?” on her way out of the room.
She stalks willfully to the front door and opens it. I start to follow after her, curious to know who’s calling and if they’re the reason she’s suddenly confused. But then I remind myself that this isn’t my house. She isn’t my girl, and whoever is knocking is none of my business. And I’m not supposed to be here so I shouldn’t be seen by anyone.
But thoughts of Daemon and the phrase, ‘wherever you are, there he is,’ rankles at my brain and I putter down the hallway after her. But it’s too late because Abi’s not by the front door anymore.
She’s standing outside on the porch. The door is closed, but the large oval of stained glass in the center of the ornate entrance reveals two figures. One is Abi and the other... is a man.
I step into the entryway, hugging the wall to listen.
“I don’t know what to do,” she says.
“Let me talk to him.” The other voice says. It’s a man, but that’s all I can be sure of as the voices are mostly muffled.
A few unintelligible exchanges later, the front door opens.
Abi walks in alone. She’s rubbing her hands do
wn her jeans, straining to make eye contact as she closes the door behind her. From what I can tell, the man is still standing on the front porch.
“What’s wrong?”
“He wants to talk to you.”
“Who?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea, but—” The door swings open as she finishes. “He’ll do what he wants.”
A man walks in. He’s nearly my height and hunched, stalwart yet somewhat decrepit as he ambles into the dim entryway. Abi follows as I take a step back into the hall. The entry isn’t big enough for more than one person when there’s a door swinging.
Abi flips a switch in the hallway and bright illuminates our forms.
All three of us: me, Abi-two, and yet another version of my living, breathing father.
“I lost track of time, so dinner’s not ready... but I’ll throw some sandwiches together,” Abi says and then disappears from beside me.
“You’re alive,” I mutter and the steely gaze of this third version of my dad softens.
He tilts his head. “I thought I’d know what to say but—damn it all—you look so much like him.”
“Strong genes.” I nod, knowingly, making light of this interaction because that’s the only way to take it; with salt and light because it will end badly.
It always ends badly.
My own father never was a man to hedge when he wanted to know something, so it’s no surprise when his alternate dives right into the hard stuff.
“I’m glad to see that you’re okay, but I’ve got to ask. My daughter-in-law tells me that your own father was killed seven years ago?”
He’s built just like my father. The ever-present wrinkles that make him look irritated even when he smiles, the receding hairline, but his hair is still there. All salt and pepper that makes him look ten years younger.
He doesn’t seem to be suffering from the same ailments as my father, either. His hands don’t tremble without permission and I saw no limp when he walked inside.
“No.” I shake my head, swallowing hard. “In my world, the year was twenty-twelve, but it’s only been a few months since.”
There are no enlarged knuckles and crooked fingers. No liver spots on his face.
His mention of time has me wondering.
“Is it twenty-eighteen in this plane?” I have to ask because in all the talking I’ve done with Abi-two, we hadn’t gotten around to her timeline.
This healthy version of my father nods. His arm stretches out. He rests a hand to my shoulder and bids me to sit with him at the dining table, where he promises we will eat and talk to our hearts content.
