Eternal

by Glass, Debra

  Unaware of time, I don’t know how long I dozed and half-sat there, tangled in his arms and legs. He’d shifted and gently stroked my hair. I’d never known such peace before. I nuzzled my face against the soft fabric of his shirt and breathed in the spicy male fragrance of him. In his arms this way, I easily forgot that he was a ghost. Instead, I pretended he was a flesh and blood man who loved me.

  Heaviness settled in my limbs as my consciousness drifted in and out.

  “Wren!”

  With a startled gasp, I suddenly fell back against the crate. My eyelids flew open as footsteps ascended the attic stairs. Rubbing my head, I sat and willed my heartbeat to return to normal. Jeremiah had vanished.

  Mom stopped at the top of the steps and stared. “What are you doing up here all alone?”

  I cleared my throat. Although I knew she didn’t have the ability to see Jeremiah, I felt as if I’d somehow been caught up to something. My cheeks flamed at the memory of the kiss he and I had shared. I gulped, recalling the sweet intimacy of half-lying in his arms while he held me. “I—” I stammered. “I like to come up here and sit by this window.”

  As Mom came closer, I pushed myself up. “I must have fallen asleep.” I fought a yawn but the need for oxygen proved too strong.

  Mom dissected me with a gaze. “Wren, I’m worried about you. Maybe this move wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

  Panic raced like an electrical current through my body. “No! I love it here, Mom.”

  “St. Joseph called and offered David his old job back with a raise.”

  Her unexpected words stung like a slap on my face. My stomach lurched. I never wanted to leave Columbia. I never wanted to leave Jeremiah. “But I like it here,” I protested. “I have friends here.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes!” I argued.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Please don’t ask me to move again,” I begged selfishly. The idea of going back to Atlanta was so foreign to me now, I couldn’t conceive of it.

  Mom pulled me into a hug. “Don’t worry, Wren. We won’t leave if you want to stay here. I just thought you’d want to go back to your friends.”

  “My friends are here now.” My voice cracked when I spoke. It sounded very convincing.

  “All right.” She patted my back between my shoulder blades. She withdrew far enough to look into my eyes and then she tucked a strand of my dark hair behind my ear.

  I trembled under her gaze. What would she think if she knew I had kissed a ghost in this very spot?

  Thankfully, she lacked my intuition. She gave me that indulgent mom smile I knew so well and then she turned her attention to the host of trunks and crates in the attic. “I wonder what’s in all of these?” she asked curiously. “Have you looked?” She glanced back at me conspiratorially.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  Mom gave a little laugh. “What do you do up here all alone? Talk to the ghosts?”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Ghosts?”

  “I’m just kidding,” Mom said. “Really, you’re as bad as Ella.”

  “Ella’s seen a ghost here?” I tried to play dumb but I recalled with vivid horror how Ella had accurately described Jeremiah.

  She waved her hand in dismissal. “You know Ella. She saw the tooth fairy, too. And described him in lurid detail. Pink tutu, wings and all.”

  I laughed outright at that. Ella was definitely the type who’d describe the tooth fairy as a male.

  Mom hugged her arms as she explored the attic. “It’s chilly up here.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  She peered behind one of the support beams. “Is there a light?”

  “I don’t know.” I hoped she wouldn’t find a switch. Somehow, seeing my sanctuary in the garish glare of artificial light did not appeal to me. I wanted it to forever remain a dark, mysterious…ghostly place.

  Mom strode across the floor to the trunk Jeremiah and I had leaned against earlier. She raked her finger through the thick layer of dust on the top. “Have you looked in this one?”

  “No.” I joined her next to the trunk.

  In one swift motion, she reached down and seized the latch. When she lifted the lid, the rusty hinges protested.

  Dust motes glimmered in the light filtering through the thick glass of the fanlight. The cedar lined trunk appeared to be packed with old clothing. Folded neatly on top lay a gray, woolen jacket with tarnished brass buttons. I assumed the capital ‘I’ emblazoned on each of them stood for infantry.

  My heart pounded in my throat as my mom gingerly lifted the jacket by its shoulders. “Would you look at this!” she exclaimed. “This probably belonged to the people who lived here. It looks like something from the Civil War.”

  Thankfully, the jacket didn’t capture Mom’s interest for very long. She passed it to me. I ran my hand over the rough, knotty wool and then opened the coat to look inside. It had been lined with a sort of crude, discolored fabric. Faded markings had been etched on the interior pocket. I held it closer to the window so that light fell on the writing.

  J. Ransom. 20th Tenn.

  All at once, the blood rushed from my head and I braced myself to keep from swooning. This coat had belonged to Jeremiah.

  He’d probably been wearing it when…he was struck. Electricity raced up my spine and exploded in my scalp.

  I glanced at Mom who bent over the trunk, rifling the contents, before I hugged the jacket close and breathed in the ages old scent of cedar and wool. Whether it was my overactive psychic sense or my imagination, I thought I detected the same woodsy, masculine fragrance that belonged only to Jeremiah.

  And then, unable to resist, I slipped the jacket on. The garment dwarfed me but gave me the same sensation of being enfolded in Jeremiah’s arms. The intimacy of wearing something he’d worn seeped straight through my skin and permeated my soul.

  Mom peeked back at me and then laughed. “Good idea. That heavy old coat will stave off the chill.”

  I couldn’t quell the wide grin that played on my lips. She had no idea.

  “Look at all this stuff!” She produced some time-discolored, crocheted doilies, a carefully folded baby’s christening gown and other items that really did not interest me.

  Hugging my arms close, I rubbed the sleeves of the coat, wishing Jeremiah watched, hoping he sensed how much in love I was with him at that moment.

  Mom reached inside the trunk and gingerly picked up a time-yellowed wedding dress. A row of tiny, satin covered buttons trailed up the lacey front. With the high collar and puffed sleeves, this dress seemed remarkably conservative in contrast to today’s standards and yet it held a timeless beauty.

  Would I ever wear such a dress? Maybe someday, I’d marry here and descend the broad staircase, wearing this very dress, clutching a bouquet of red roses while a string quartet played and my family proudly watched.

  Something twisted in my heart at the innate knowledge that I’d never have such a wedding.

  Averting my gaze, I realized I’d chosen a different path.

  “This must be a photo of some of the people who lived here.” Mom’s declaration snared my attention.

  She had put the dress aside and now, she held a small case that looked like a book with hinges. I recognized it as an antique picture frame. Every nerve in my being seized taut. I shook. Without seeing the photo, I knew it was of Jeremiah. It was the one I had wanted to find.

  Time stood still as Mom pressed her thumbs into the seam and pried open the frame. Not daring to breathe, I stared down at the original photograph of the one I’d seen in the magazine.

  Mom’s head cocked to the side. “This guy was kind of handsome.”

  A chill swept down my arms and a hunch hit me that something significant was about to happen.

  “You know, the…ghost…Ella told me about fits this boy’s description,” Mom said, tracing his face with her fingertip. “Dark hair. Light eyes.”

  My breathing quickened. I tried in
vain to keep my hand from trembling as I practically snatched the frame from my mom. Renewed love rushed over me like a rogue wave as I gazed at Jeremiah’s beautiful but stern face. “All these old photos look alike,” I said. “She could have been describing anybody.” For added emphasis, I said, “There’s a boy who rides our bus that looks sort of like this. Ella has a crush on him.”

  I didn’t offer to give the photo back to Mom. Instead, I clutched it and peeped over her shoulder into the trunk. “What else is in there?”

  Mom took the bait and with all the excitement of an archeologist opening an Egyptian tomb, she dropped to her knees and began prowling through the trunk.

  After a while, I was satisfied there was nothing else inside that belonged to Jeremiah and when we heard Ella’s boisterous voice, Mom quickly packed all the items except the two which I still had in my possession back into the trunk, closed it, stood and brushed the dust off her hands.

  I’d hoped Mom had forgotten all about the photograph I held in my hand.

  No such luck.

  “Let’s show that to Ella and see if she recognizes the boy in the picture.”

  I blew out a silent but exasperated breath. “That’s why I was bringing it down,” I lied.

  But when Mom went down to greet Ella, I prudently disappeared into my bedroom.

  Ten

  My eyes blinked open and slowly focused on Jeremiah’s figure standing at the foot of my bed. A slow smile crept across my face.

  “I didn’t mean to awaken you,” he said, seeming to float to my bedside. His gaze slid past me to my nightstand. “You found my carte de visite.”

  “Your what?” I asked him, my voice raspy from sleep.

  “Carte de visite. My photograph.”

  I twisted to glance at his photo standing in its little frame on my nightstand and then I looked once more at him. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  One side of his mouth drew up in a lopsided grin. “I’m flattered.”

  “I found your coat, too,” I said, gesturing toward his gray wool jacket which lay lovingly folded at the foot of my bed.

  “I was wearing that when I was struck.” His expression turned serious for a moment and then he seemed to shake it off. “I really am sorry for waking you.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said, unable to take my eyes off him as I scooted over so that he could sit. The few hours I’d spent without him had seemed like an eternity and my heart swelled with joy at the sight of him. He appeared just as happy to see me.

  “What were you doing?” I asked.

  He brushed an errant lock of hair from my cheek. “Watching you sleep.”

  The act was so suddenly tender, my breath caught.

  “You purr like a kitten when you sleep,” he teased.

  “I do not.”

  “It’s quite becoming,” he added, smiling.

  His smile unraveled me, especially when those devastating dimples appeared at the corners of his lush lips. My entire body hummed with the desire to touch him, kiss him, to feel him next to me. My smile faded as I held his gaze and drew back the covers in unspoken invitation.

  For a brief moment, he stared, torn, and then he kicked off his shoes and moved under the sheet and blankets with me. Folding me in his arms, he pulled me close so that our foreheads touched.

  I held him, weaving my legs with his, wondering what it would be like if he were alive. Would I feel the same?

  “When was the last time you slept in a bed?” I asked, merely curious.

  “The last time you slept.” His velvet-soft voice caressed me.

  My nerve endings sparked to life. “You’ve slept…with…in my…in my bed before?”

  “Do you find it strange?”

  “No, no,” I said quickly. “I…just wondered why you didn’t wake me up.”

  He cradled me close. “Because you are so beautiful when you sleep.”

  In the dark, his eyes were the color of charcoal, his thick lashes even darker. When I reached up and cupped his face with my palm, he turned into my hand and kissed the tip of my thumb. My heart rioted.

  “I would give my soul to be a flesh and blood man,” he murmured.

  I couldn’t stop shaking. “W-why?” I bit my bottom lip, desperately awaiting the answer.

  His gaze slid to my lips and then back to my eyes. “Because I would put a ring on your finger and make you my wife.”

  Unable to resist him any longer, I moved restlessly against him, threading my fingers into his hair. My mouth found his but despite my attempts to turn our kiss into a passionate one, he kissed me back with frustrating restraint.

  I pulled away. “Jeremiah, I—”

  He pressed his thumb to my lips to silence me. “Don’t say it, Wren.”

  “But—”

  Pain lurked in his eyes. His forehead furrowed. “Can’t you understand that I feel it?”

  I stared, not comprehending.

  “I know what you’re feeling for me right now. You don’t have to say it.” His throat muscles worked as he swallowed. “I wish you wouldn’t say it.”

  A shard of fear struck my heart. “You don’t…feel…the same way…for me?”

  He pressed a chaste kiss to the tip of my nose. “Foolish girl. It’s all I can do to lie here next to you. I want to be with you so badly and I…I love you so much that I’m terrified you’ll come to your senses and forget I ever existed.”

  His words sank in, defying all reason. My world tilted. He loved me. My heart soared. I opened my mouth to speak but he silenced me again. This time with a tender kiss.

  I melted in his embrace, kissing. Wanting. More. Always more.

  He set me back again. “Wren, please be patient. This short time is hardly long enough to know what you want for the rest of your life. And if you were to love me and then leave me…I’m a jealous man. I’m afraid I could never let you go.”

  His fears were unjustified and I knew it in my heart. Why wouldn’t he let me explain?

  “If you love me as much as I feel that you do, then you will wait,” he said.

  No part of my body wanted to wait for anything but I heard myself agreeing out loud. I relaxed into his sweet embrace and contented myself with just being near him, however difficult it was for me.

  When he drew my head onto his shoulder and stroked my hair, I laid my open palm on his chest, letting my index finger slip through the opening between the buttons to rest on the smooth skin beneath.

  “That’s better.” He breathed the words.

  I snuggled against him. “How can you be so in control of yourself when my whole being burns for you?”

  “I suppose it’s because you have a physical body,” he stated.

  “But I can touch you, see you.”

  He inhaled. “But you’re the only one.”

  “Ella saw you. She said you winked at her.”

  He chuckled.

  “And Waylon…heard you,” I said, daring to revive a sore subject.

  “Perhaps they saw and heard me because you can.”

  “That still doesn’t answer my question,” I said, doggedly pursuing an answer.

  “The reality is, I’m a spirit. I can move through a wall, this bed, even you.”

  I tingled with delicious anticipation at the thought of him moving through me.

  He resumed. “You perceive me as a solid entity because I want you to.”

  The idea that he could, at a whim, take himself away from me—as he had done before—turned my blood to ice. I really hadn’t considered what his spirit might be made of. Until now.

  Doubt abruptly flooded me that he existed at all even though I lay here in his arms. What if I’d been so desperate for love that I’d created him? What if he existed only in my mind?

  My imaginations were silly. Both Waylon and Ella had seen him. I’d found physical evidence he’d lived. I heaved a sigh.

  “Why are you afraid?” he asked. “I feel your fear.”

  “I’m afraid I’m just crazy.
Nothing has been the same since the accident.”

  “I have detected more than fear in you when you talk about your accident.”

  I began to tremble and could not stop. Alarm that he’d sense the true nature of my panic crashed over me. He cradled me closer, but this time I had to fight the urge to jump out of bed and get as far away from him as possible. If he knew what I’d done…

  I couldn’t bear his disappointment.

  Tears welled in my eyes and I could do nothing to prevent them from cascading down my cheeks. Why did I always seem to be crying around him? I’d managed to hold all this grief and guilt in since the accident. Why now? Why with Jeremiah? Why couldn’t I pretend it had never happened and go on with my life?

  I wanted desperately to be the girl—woman—I pretended to be, but even though I’d experienced a temporary death that night in Atlanta, it was as if I’d been the one who really died that day instead of Kira.

  Jeremiah drew in a deep breath and then blew it out slowly. “When my brothers were killed during the war, I was so angry, I ran away to join the Confederate Army,” he confessed. “In doing so, I broke a promise I’d made to them and to my mother.”

  “You’d promised not to join?”

  “Yes. I promised them all I would continue to study law and become a lawyer. But when they died, I understood that my fate would be to become a farmer like my father.”

  My heart ached for him. “You didn’t want to do that?”

  “Not at all. I had no desire to follow in my father’s footsteps.”

  “That’s not so unusual,” I told him.

  “Maybe not,” he agreed. “But I felt my fate was being thrust on me. When I slipped off to join the Confederates, it was almost as if I had a macabre wish to die in battle.”

  “Why?” But I, too, knew the feeling of wishing I had died and Kira had lived. For the first time, it struck me how she might have felt if that had been the case.

  “I can’t explain it other than I couldn’t fathom why they had died and I still lived. Guilt ate me alive,” he said. “And on the long march from Decatur to Franklin, I kept trying to imagine what my life would be after the war and I could not conceive of it.”

  He took another deep breath. “In addition, I felt somehow it was my fault my brothers had died.” This time, his voice was quieter. More sober.