Waiting for Patrick

by Brynn Stein

Feeling the sun bite a little more into the back of his neck, Elliot rubbed the trace of heat away. “Really? You came all the way out here and want to go back to your place to make out?”

  “Well, more than make out, I’m hoping, but yeah.” Daniel turned red, and Elliot was sure it wasn’t instant sunburn, no matter how hot the sun was today.

  “Because you think I have a ghost.”

  “You do.” Daniel glanced at the house nervously, as though he expected the ghost to run him off again.

  Elliot rolled his eyes. “Well, I also have a stable out back. How about we go there?” Elliot had to admit, if only to himself, that after that dream last night, he certainly could use some sexual release. The shower seemed a long time ago, and Elliot was ready for more.

  “You want to go for a roll in the hay?”

  “That was a bad pun, but yes, since you’re here….”

  Daniel smirked and grabbed Elliot’s hand, pulling him up so quickly Elliot had to take a quick step to regain his balance. “So, where is that barn of yours?”

  AFTER DANIEL left, Elliot returned to puttering around the house: pulling weeds, tearing off loose slats in the railing, marking down bigger fixer-upper projects that he’d need to do. By dinnertime he was exhausted.

  There was a knock on the door. Elliot gave a brief thought to pretending he didn’t hear it, but then the doorbell rang. He was pretty sure it wasn’t Daniel again. Daniel had come several times earlier, so Elliot didn’t think even the young horndog could be ready for more already. He figured the person at the door was probably Sheri, and she wouldn’t stop knocking or ringing the bell until he answered.

  He pulled himself up from the couch and dragged his body to the door.

  “Hey, Elle.” Sheri stopped in midknock as the door swung open. “Do you want to go out to eat with me? Maybe go to the club?”

  Elliot was beginning to wonder when Sheri actually did anything but dine out or go clubbing, but he knew she did, indeed, cater events in there someplace. “I’m going to have to pass tonight, Cher.” He slumped against the door jam and belatedly realized he hadn’t even invited her in. “I feel like a little old man,” he admitted. “I think I’ve been pushing myself too hard. I’m going to fix a TV dinner and go straight to bed.”

  Sheri laughed and patted his cheek. “Poor old baby.” She ducked his halfhearted smack. “Okay, Elle. Get some rest.” She turned to leave but then looked over her shoulder. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  THE BATTLE is a disaster. Rebel soldiers seem to come from every bush and tree and ditch. We thought we had them outnumbered at first, but it was soon obvious that it was exactly the opposite. The retreat signal is given and our unit is splitting up, running in all directions. The Rebels are still shooting, and Jacob, who is running beside us, falls. At first I think he tripped and stop to help him up. There’s blood coming from his mouth and his eyes are staring, unfocused, at the sky.

  Patrick has gotten several paces ahead of me and starts back toward me now, calling my name. I hear more gunshots, and I feel the bullet as it rips through my gut. Patrick screams and falls down beside me.

  “Ben,” he gasps. “Ben, talk to me.”

  “I—” I gulp for air, trying to catch my breath. “I’m okay.”

  I’m not, and he knows I’m not, but he grabs my arms and pulls me upright. We’re too exposed here. We need to get away.

  Patrick half drags me toward the tree line. Patrick pushes me into the thicket at the edge of the woods. I don’t even realize what’s happening when Patrick screams again and drops to his knees. By the time I look around, Patrick is crawling toward me and pushes me deeper into the brush. We get so deep into the thicket that sunlight barely trickles in.

  Patrick pulls me toward him and grabs at the bloody patch of shirt at my stomach. He opens my uniform jacket and pulls at the undershirt until my stomach is exposed. What’s left of it. There’s a good-sized hole that’s not supposed to be there. Patrick presses on the wound, whether to stop the bleeding or to hold in my guts, I’m not sure, because it sure feels like my insides are trying to get out.

  It isn’t until then, when he presses down with his right hand and winces, that I notice he’s been shot in the upper arm.

  “You’re shot too.” It’s harder than it should be to form the words without slurring them.

  “I’m fine.” He’s trying to whitewash his own pain, trying to tell me his wound doesn’t hurt, but I reckon it does.

  “I promised Ma I wouldn’t get shot.” I do slur these words, I know, but I can’t help it. I feel myself passing out.

  “Ben.” He says my name again, loud and with fear in his voice, like maybe he’d been saying it for a while and I hadn’t answered.

  “I’m here.” I try to smile but can barely get the words out. It’s still dark in the thicket, but I can clearly see Patrick’s terrified face. He’s holding me so close I hear the pounding of his heart in my ear.

  “You better stay here too.” He brushes my hair out of my face. “Come on. I don’t hear any gunshots anymore. We can get you some help. I remember seeing a house a ways back.”

  “They’re not going to help us, Patrick.” I shake my head and force myself to speak. “We’re in South Carolina. We’re Yankees. They’d probably finish the job, not patch us up.”

  He holds back a sob. He thinks I can’t tell, but I can. “We have to try something, Ben. I’m not going to let you die.”

  I smile. “I’m not sure you have a choice.”

  He tries to be brave. “Sure I do. You belong to me. You’re my other half. I don’t want to give you up. So I’m not going to.”

  I grin, but I can feel my eyes shutting again.

  ELLIOT GASPED awake and grabbed his stomach.

  “Oh God,” he panted, trying to tell himself he’s safe. He’s alive. He’s not dying in a thicket beside a battlefield in the Civil War. “Why am I dreaming this shit?”

  Chapter 3

  ELLIOT TRIED to be his usual productive self the next morning, making calls, answering e-mails, but he couldn’t shake the dream. He still felt the bullet hole in his stomach and was still terrified for Patrick. He could feel Ben’s love for him as if it were a tangible entity. Elliot couldn’t get anything done except think about the dream.

  By the time Sheri sashayed through the opened door, bearing the makings for a late breakfast, Elliot was ready for a distraction. Any distraction. It didn’t really work, though, and he soon found himself in the kitchen, telling her all about the dreams.

  “It’s weird, Cher,” he told her between bites of blueberry muffin. “I’m dreaming about these two guys in the Civil War, from the one guy’s point of view. Like I’m looking through his eyes. It took me a while to realize that part. That it wasn’t even supposed to be me in the dream, but this other man.”

  “Well, it is a Civil War–era house, Ellie.” She smiled and playfully smacked his hand from across the table. “You have a really good imagination.”

  “I don’t know.” He picked at the apples Sheri had brought and sliced for them. “It doesn’t feel like that.”

  “What else could it be?”

  He picked up his mug and took a gulp of coffee. “As much as I hate to agree with Darrell—”

  “Who?” Sheri scrunched up her face in confusion as she reached for the butter for her own muffin. “Oh, you mean Daniel? You really need to start calling him by his real name.”

  “I’ve seen him a handful of times. I don’t think it matters,” he said dismissively, running his finger around the top of his coffee cup. “Anyway. That’s not the point. The point is, he swore there was a ghost or something, and then I get these dreams, and—”

  She laughed and sat back in her chair. “It’s one thing to tease about it, Elle, but you don’t really think there’s a ghost in your house? Do you?” When he didn’t immediately answer, she leaned forward again, looking skeptical. “Ellie. You? Really?”

  “Well, no.” He warmed his hands on
his mug, staring into the steam rising from it. “I don’t believe in ghosts.” Sheri’s hand reached for his, but he didn’t dare meet her eyes yet. “Or, at least I didn’t. I don’t know.” He shrugged, and finally looked up again. “What else can it be?”

  Sheri’s face was a puzzle of concern as she pushed her apples away and reached farther across the table. Because they knew each other so well, it gave Elliot a signal that she wanted to touch his hand. He abandoned the warmth of his cup and reached toward her the last couple of inches.

  “Ellie,” she finally said. “It could be a million other things, I’m sure. You have an active imagination. You always did. And you watch too many movies and books about the supernatural.” She seemed to sense that she needed to change her tactics to get through to him. She gave his hand a little slap. “Besides, I don’t think that’s how ghosts work.”

  Elliot shook his head, patted her hand before he pulled his away, then picked up his coffee again. “You can’t say there’s no such thing as ghosts, then claim to know how they do or do not work. Not gonna fly, Cher. And besides, weren’t you the one who was all, ‘Is it a ghost, Ellie? Well, maybe your ghost does put things away’?”

  She smirked but still seemed concerned as she leaned her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers. “Like I said. It’s one thing to joke about it. Which is what I was doing, and you know it. But to actually believe it?” Her tone of voice switched to something used on feral animals and frightened children. “Come on, Ellie. You know you don’t have a ghost.”

  Elliot thought for a while, then decided he agreed, for the most part. “Yeah, probably not. But these dreams are starting to bug me.”

  “Why? Are they creepy or something?”

  “You mean beside the fact that I’m having a recurring dream about two guys I’ve never met, from almost two hundred years ago? No, nothing creepy at all. Unless you count that I think the one died last night. Or came real close.” Not even the warmth from the coffee cup could prevent the shiver that thought created.

  “What?” Sheri leaned back, as though the mere idea was a fist aimed at her face and she had to dodge it.

  “The one whose eyes I see through. He was shot and dying, and the other one was trying to get him some help.” He gulped and met her eyes. Stared her down, willing her to believe him. “Sheri, the dream was so real. I woke up expecting to see blood oozing from my stomach. I felt the bullet in my gut.” He had her attention. Her face became even more concerned, but he didn’t stop. “The brambles the men crawled through to escape scratched and tore at my skin. I expected to see scratches on my arms. That’s how real it was, Cher.” She opened her mouth as if to interrupt him but he hurried on. “I smelled the gunpowder and the damp earth and the blood. God, so much blood. And I was terrified for Patrick. He’s the other guy and was shot too, and I remember feeling more alarmed about that than the fact I was pretty sure I was dying.”

  She paused, opened and closed her mouth again several times. Elliot stared at her, flabbergasted. A dumbstruck Sheri? That couldn’t be good. She finally found her voice. “Ellie.” She stopped and seemed to think about how she wanted to say the next part. “You always work so hard and put yourself under such stress. Um, maybe that’s all it is.” She reached for his hand again, but Elliot pulled away. She looked slightly hurt but continued, “You have such a great imagination, and you’re in this beautiful old house with such a rich history, putting yourself in stories that your mind is coming up with about what might have been.” Elliot’s gaze had returned to his coffee, and she tapped the table to get his attention. “That’s all it is, Elle.”

  He straightened his back, gearing for an argument. “If that’s all it is, why is it always the same two guys? Why do the dreams pick up where the last one started? Imagination doesn’t really explain it, Cher.” He slumped back in his chair, suddenly exhausted. Emotionally as well as physically.

  “I don’t know. But it’s not a ghost.” She popped another slice of apple in her mouth, and Elliot thought the conversation must be over.

  The only sound in the room was from the refrigerator as the ice maker filled. Sheri still looked expectantly at him, so he finally gave her what he thought she wanted and changed the subject. “Do you have any catering work coming up?”

  She brightened and took the opportunity. “Actually, yes. A couple. There’s a banquet Saturday, some charity event. And I have a wedding Sunday.” And she was off and gone, talking about hors d’oeuvres and main courses and how many people were expected at each event.

  Elliot tried to pay attention, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of a bullet tearing through his stomach, the smell of his own blood, and the terror of losing the love of his life.

  THEY HAD decided to make a day of it. Sheri wanted to go shopping, and while that wasn’t Elliot’s idea of a good time, he didn’t mind tagging along while Sheri had fun trying on every outfit in every store in a ten-mile radius. She’d be going to the charity event and wedding this weekend. Working, yes, but she mingled with the partygoers and often drummed up more business that way, so she wanted to look her best. And she swore that none of the clothes she already had were suitable because some of the people at the banquet would be in attendance at another fundraiser and she couldn’t possibly risk them seeing her in the same outfit.

  By the time they got back to Sheri’s house for dinner, Elliot was beyond exhausted and told her so as he sunk into the overstuffed cushions of her sofa.

  “Why are you exhausted?” Sheri asked. “All you did was sit and watch me try on everything. I’m the one who did all the work.” She dropped her bags on the floor and oozed into the armchair opposite the couch.

  “Yeah, lots of work, trying on clothes.” He picked up a white cat hair from the arm of the green sofa and flicked it to the floor.

  “I’ll have you know it takes a lot of effort to look as good as I always do.”

  “Well yes, considering what you have to start with.” He screeched when she kicked him. “Ow!”

  “Be nice.” She pointed a scolding finger at him.

  “Why? More fun to pick on you.” He found another cat hair on his lap, and he hadn’t even seen the cat yet.

  “Well, quit it, or I’ll sic your ghost on you,” Sheri teased as the white Persian cat, whose name Elliot absently remembered was Midnight, finally peeked around the corner to the hallway.

  “You need to make up your mind about whether or not you believe I have a ghost.” He slumped down on the couch, truly too tired to go home at the moment. Propping his feet on the table, he looked aghast as his pants leg slid down to reveal his socks. “Geez, Cher. You walked me all over God’s green earth so much that my ankles are swollen.”

  She glanced at his ankles, swatted his feet off the table, then rolled her eyes. “I think it’s PMS. It would explain why you’re so bitchy today too.”

  “Now who should be nice?” He spied the cat slinking across the floor—whether to pounce on him or Sheri, he didn’t know.

  “Turnabout’s fair play,” Sheri said in a singsong voice, then startled as the cat touched her leg from under the chair.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Elliot watched the furry time bomb wind its way around Sheri’s feet and jump up on the couch.

  They fell silent for a couple of minutes, Elliot petting Midnight and Sheri going through her bags. Finally Elliot caught his second wind and felt like he could drive home. Lifting the cat from his lap, he placed her on the floor and stood up. “Well, I guess I better go. I need to go see if Ben died or if Patrick saved him.” Elliot tried to make light of the dreams and a possible ghost, as Sheri had earlier, but as anxious as he was to get home to put his feet up—without getting them pushed off the furniture—he was also apprehensive about actually falling asleep.

  Sheri laughed as she stood up with him to see him to the door. “You sound like a chick hurrying home to watch her soaps.”

  “I’d feel a little better if it was soaps. At least then I’d understand
where they were coming from. And could tape them and watch them when I wanted to. But if I’m going to dream them anyway, I might as well invest some interest, right?” he quipped as they walked to the door.

  “Sure.” She hugged him and turned serious. “Drive carefully. You really do look wrung out.”

  “I’m tired, but I’ll be fine.” He ran his hand through his hair and turned the doorknob.

  Sheri caught his arm so that he would turn back around. “Call me when you get home.”

  “Yes, Mom.” He grinned and kissed her cheek.

  She smacked the back of his head, and he laughed all the way to his car.

  ELLIOT GOT home and barely made it to the door. He didn’t even bother heading to the living room or even the kitchen. He grabbed the chair that always sat at the table in the foyer, turned it around, and dissolved into it. He wasn’t sure why he was so tired. He called Sheri as instructed and was lingering in the foyer ten minutes later when the doorbell rang. Since he was right there, he answered it before he even thought to look for who it was.

  “Darrell.” He was genuinely surprised.

  Daniel didn’t wait to be asked in. Elliot was standing off to one side anyway, and Daniel took that as an invitation. “You do that on purpose. I know you know my real name.”

  Elliot shrugged. “I call Sheri Cher. She calls me Ellie. I have a friend named Daytona whom I call Don and another named Barbara whom I call Bob. It’s sort of what I do.”

  Daniel’s face lit up. “So it’s a friend thing?”

  It hadn’t been in the beginning. In the club he had truly thought he’d heard Darrell the first time, since it had been so noisy. The rest of that night he’d done it to distance Daniel so he would leave him alone. Then he’d referred to Daniel as Darrell when talking about him to Sheri, mostly to tick her off. By now it was merely habit. Elliot hadn’t considered that it might be hurtful. Daniel had wheedled his way into Elliot’s life pretty quickly, and it hadn’t occurred to him to explain the eccentricity. “I do know your name, and I can call you that if the nickname bothers you.”