Souls Estranged (The Souls Trilogy Book 2)

by Anne B. Cole

  Suddenly, Gretta didn’t want him to leave.

  “Don’t.”

  The word slipped out of her in a rush of panic. She stumbled to her feet, knocking into the table. Her cup of coffee sloshed, dumping a generous amount without tipping over. “Sorry, I’ll get it.”

  Tim’s stare returned as she cleaned the coffee spill with the last dish towel. “I promise I won’t make too much of a mess when you’re gone.” She folded the towel twice to keep him from noticing her shaking hands.

  “Don’t what?” His deep, calm voice resonated within her.

  Don’t go. Please don’t go. She knew she couldn’t say it. He had to go to work. It was his duty.

  His duty.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of Sam. I feel better already.” It wasn’t a lie. The jackhammering inside her head had subsided. More memories filled her mind, and she wanted to be alone to write them down.

  Tim sighed and tore off the sticky note. He held it in his hand for a few seconds before firmly pressing it to the counter. “Don’t hesitate to call. I gave Sam his medication at midnight after I brought you downstairs. He’s due again at six.” He collected his gun and radio. “I’ll be back this afternoon.”

  Gretta grabbed her mug and pretended to take a sip.

  “There’s tea in the cupboard. Dump the coffee out before it makes you sick,” Tim ordered.

  She poured the contents of the mug and pot down the drain as the door clicked behind him. The clock on the stove displayed five-fifteen. She refilled her mug with water and popped it into the microwave. She found a box of tea and dunked a bag in the mug of hot water.

  Squeezing the tea bag against a spoon with her fingers, Gretta took a sip. She closed her eyes and imagined sitting on the beach watching waves roll to shore without a care in the world, just like in a beer commercial.

  Blackberry tea.

  She tilted the end of the tea bag to see the flavor.

  English Breakfast. Why am I thinking about blackberry tea?

  Her fingers flew to the pen and snatched the yellow pad. She had to make sense of the images and thoughts she encountered to prove to herself she wasn’t crazy.

  ‘Blackberry tea—a gift.’ She tore off the sticky note.

  Gretta wrote, ‘Uniform,’ on the second; ‘Explosion, flames, ship, dead,’ on the third. Her hands shook as she jotted ‘Blood.’ Writing ‘Safe—Tony, Tim’ on the next, slowed her heart to a normal pace.

  Why didn’t I include Sam’s name on the ‘safe’ list?

  Her heart sped as her mind clouded. She took another sip of tea and decided to organize the notes. Her prescription instructions were on the counter. She flipped the paper and lined the sticky notes carefully on the back.

  Sam was in danger. This she knew for certain, but didn’t understand why.

  The clock on the mantel chimed half past the hour. Five-thirty. Sam needed his medicine at six.

  Gretta rinsed out the glass she had used earlier and ran the faucet until the water cooled. She scooped up Sam’s medicine bottle. Thank God there was no child safe cap. After smoothing her hair and retying her ponytail, she headed upstairs.

  The door pushed open without a sound. The wooden floor creaked under her second step. Sam peered in her direction. A forced half-smile ended with a shuddering breath.

  “Hey.” The tremendous effort it took to utter the word played across his face.

  Gretta noted the tangled blankets, his shivering body, and his pale face, dotted with sweat. Her mind zeroed in on fleeting memories she couldn’t piece together.

  Infection, fever, death. Terror gripped her deep within.

  This had happened to Sam before and it wasn’t a dream.

  Chapter 9

  The Pitcher

  Gretta

  “Sam?” Gretta set the medicine on Sam’s bedside table. “Can you sit up?” She took his hand as he lifted his head off the pillow. She grabbed another pillow from his bed and propped both against the headboard.

  Sam groaned and gingerly shifted to a sitting position. Gretta offered the medicine and water and he readily popped the pill.

  She brushed a lock of hair away from his face, allowing her cool fingers to linger on his cheek.

  Immediately his hand touched hers and pressed firmly against his clammy skin. “Feels good. I need your feet.”

  Gretta returned her fingers to his forehead, pretending to push back clingy damp hair. Her heart pounded as she remembered Ruby’s words to watch him closely for signs of a fever.

  “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get a cold washcloth.” Her voice sounded much stronger than she felt.

  Within a minute, she returned with a wet towel for his forehead. She gently raised his head, flipped the pillow, and eased him back. She fetched a second wet washcloth and dabbed his face and neck.

  “Anya?” The sadness in his voice pulled at her heart.

  “Sam, it’s me, Gretta. I’m gonna call Ruby.” She raced downstairs to the kitchen and found her phone. It rang several times before the elderly nurse picked up.

  “Ruby, Sam’s running a fever, I think—”

  “Take his temp and call me back,” Ruby calmly replied.

  Gretta hurried upstairs to the bathroom. The mirrored medicine cabinet contained a razor, two toothbrushes, a tube of toothpaste, and a half empty bottle of nighttime cold medicine. No thermometer. She ran back to Sam’s room.

  “Sam, I need to see if you have a fever. Where’s a thermometer?”

  “Still packed.” Sam’s voice was barely audible.

  Recalling a room full of moving boxes next to the kitchen, she raced downstairs. Several opened boxes scattered across the room. Others remained taped shut. A thin layer of dust coated all. No labels to identify the contents. She took a deep breath and rummaged through.

  Pots, pans, and utensils filled the first two. Dish towels, an old cordless phone, and an assortment of jarred seasonings packed another. She ripped the tape off a third box producing more dish towels and several bath towels.

  Men. They had towels all along.

  Wedged in between two yellow towels she found a small ceramic pitcher. The ivory and copper colored designs gave it an antique appearance. Someone had safely nestled it within the towels so it wouldn’t break during the move.

  Gretta replaced the pitcher within the towels and continued her search. Four boxes later, she found an old thermometer in a plastic case. She stared at it for a full minute before she called Ruby.

  “I found one, it’s glass. What do I do with it?” Her mom had one of those digital ear thermometers to take her temperature. Her father had used only his hand.

  Ruby laughed, but explained, “Shake the mercury past the numbers and have Sam hold it under his tongue for two minutes before reading it.”

  Gretta mumbled her thanks, grateful for the instructions, and ran back upstairs.

  “Hey, I found a thermometer.” She gently lifted his head and flipped the pillow to the cool side. “Open up. You need to hold this under your tongue.”

  He patted the bed next to him. She sat and slipped the thermometer in his mouth.

  “Do you want me to call your dad?” she asked.

  “No,” Sam mumbled. He snaked an arm around her waist. Heat radiated from him like a furnace.

  “Can I take a peek?” Gretta asked.

  A grin cracked his pale face.

  “At your incision, Mr. Daggett.” She carefully loosened the bandage and sucked in a breath.

  “Okay, let’s see exactly how hot you are.” She pulled the thermometer from his lips.

  “You’re pretty hot,” Sam replied.

  Gretta rotated the thermometer slowly in her fingers. The silver reached a hair under one hundred and th
ree. “Not as hot as you.” She feigned a smile. “Time for a new bandage.” She unwrapped a sterile gauze pad, tenderly covered the wound, and secured it.

  Sam flinched before exhaling a held breath.

  “I’ll be right back.” She stepped to the door.

  “Don’t go.” Sam’s voice sounded small, frightened, and so unlike him.

  Gretta kissed his cheek. “I promise I won’t be gone more than two minutes.” She squeezed his hand and left. Memories of tending to his shoulder, flipping his pillow, and praying his fever would subside filled her mind. Confused and worried, she ran downstairs.

  Yanking the front door open, Gretta punched Ruby’s number on her cell. “It’s infected. Red with streaks. The fever’s a hundred and three.”

  “One hundred point three? Is he awake?”

  “No, one hundred three. And yes, he’s awake.”

  “I’m on my way. See if you can cool him down with some ice.” Even as Ruby offered instructions, Gretta had already snatched up the newspaper from the lawn, ran back inside, and opened the freezer. She pulled out the lone ice cube tray.

  “Okay, please hurry.” Gretta shoved the phone into her pocket and dumped ice on one of the dish towels she had found in the box. She pulled the rubber band off the newspaper and twisted it on the towel.

  The antique pitcher caught her eye. Inside contained a folded piece of paper. She tossed it on the counter, rinsed and filled the pitcher with cold water, and raced upstairs.

  “Missed you.” Sam attempted a smile. He patted the bed with his good hand. Without hesitation, she lifted the blanket and slid beside him. With the ice pack settled alongside his forehead, she pressed her cool legs and feet against his.

  “Don’t go again, please.”

  “I won’t leave you.” She held him as he slipped in and out of a fitful sleep.

  Time passed ever so slowly. Within seconds of Ruby’s arrival, Gretta swung the front door open. The stout old woman barreled inside.

  “How is he?” she demanded as they hurried to the bedroom.

  “Temperature is the same, but now he’s chilled. I put an extra blanket on him. I don’t think it helps.” Gretta stood on the other side of his bed as Ruby took over.

  “Sam, describe the pain in your shoulder.” Ruby examined the area around the incision.

  “Where’s Gretta?” It was the third time in the past half hour he asked for her even though she left him only to answer the door.

  “Here.” She took his right hand in hers.

  “Describe the pain, Sam,” Ruby repeated as she took his blood pressure.

  “Hurts like hell.”

  “I asked you to describe it, not compare it.” She took off the cuff and removed the ice pack from his head.

  “Burns, throbs, extends into my arm and chest,” Sam mumbled.

  Gretta squeezed his hand tighter.

  “When did you last take your medicine?” Ruby questioned.

  He looked to Gretta for an answer.

  “An hour ago,” she stated.

  “Help me get Sam to the car,” Ruby commanded.

  “Gretta? Where is she?” Sam’s voice wavered.

  “I’m beside you.” Confusion and worry filled her voice.

  “She can’t go with us. It’s too dangerous.” Ruby pulled a pair of old slippers from under the bed and shoved them on his feet.

  “I don’t care if it’s dangerous, Katarina, I’m not afraid of the curse.” Sam pressed against Gretta’s side.

  Ruby grabbed his good arm. “Look at me,” she demanded. “The infection in your shoulder may be very contagious.” She helped him stand. “Support his right side, Gretta. Careful.”

  They took him downstairs and out to the car. He leaned heavily on both women before collapsing into the back seat. Gretta climbed in beside him.

  “I’m sorry. You cannot come.” Ruby stood at the car door.

  Gretta’s mouth dropped open, wondering if she heard correctly.

  “Katarina,” Sam moaned.

  Gretta whipped around in search of another woman. “Ruby, he’s delirious. We need to leave now.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, child. Stay here and rest. Call Tim and tell him to meet me at the emergency room.” Ruby leaned into the car from the other side and covered Sam with a blanket.

  Gretta watched how his face paled. She remembered the way Katarina and Alec called her ‘child.’ Frustrated anger simmered within.

  Wait. Katarina? Sam called Ruby ‘Katarina.’

  “I—I promised Sam I wouldn’t leave him,” Gretta stammered.

  “Have you had any direct contact with Sam? Skin contact?” Ruby asked sharply.

  Gretta’s gaze met his to avoid the nurse’s critical eye. “He was hot, so I crawled in bed with him. I’m always cold. Ever since the tree fell—”

  “Dear God. Buckle up, child,” Ruby ordered and slammed the door.

  Gretta’s mind raced with strange thoughts. Or were they memories? Sam’s fingers squeezed her hand as he drifted back to sleep.

  The sun touched the horizon when Tim pulled the patrol cruiser into his driveway. Gretta climbed out of the car, clutching a paper bag which contained her prescribed antibiotic.

  Sam’s condition remained critical. The doctors diagnosed his infection as a resistant strain of staphylococcus. When she left with Tim, the doctors administered a second type of antibiotic. Ruby stayed at his side.

  Gretta watched Tim twist the key in the front door lock. She walked in, spotted her tote bag on the floor next to the couch, and shoved the bag of medicine inside. Tim headed to the kitchen.

  Throughout the day, she had pieced thoughts and memories together. Even though most of it didn’t make sense, she knew what she had to do. Her thumb nervously twirled the ring until the dark red stone centered on her finger.

  “Please take me home.” Her words spilled out in a tangled whisper.

  Tim slowly faced her. “You can stay here. Just don’t go into Sam’s room or touch anything he has touched.”

  Gretta knew he wanted her to stay even though Ruby was adamantly against it. Unable to lie to his face, she stared at the floor. “You need to get back to Sam. I called home. All of the relatives left, and—and Mom needs me.” The fib cut through her like a dagger.

  A dagger.

  An intricate vision of a jeweled handled dagger popped into her head.

  Tim frowned. Gretta figured he either pitied her or knew she lied. “Give me a minute.” He disappeared upstairs.

  Gretta walked into the kitchen. Perched on the counter, the little gray and white cat stared at her with huge green eyes. Her ringed tail twitched over the prescription paper covered with sticky notes. Gretta picked up the paper along with her bottle of pain medicine.

  The cat mewed softly, pawing at another piece of paper. As Gretta petted the cat, she noticed the paper was what she had removed from the old pitcher.

  “Hey, step to the side, kitty.” She nudged the cat off the counter and eyed what appeared to be a very old letter. The flowing cursive handwriting caught her attention. The upper right hand corner contained a date: January 3, 1830, and the words, Taylor Plantation, Virginia. The faded salutation read, ‘My Dearest Anya.’

  “Anya,” Gretta gasped. The fragile paper crinkled as she continued to read. The tiny cat meowed at her feet and rubbed her calf repetitively. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Without thinking, she crammed the letter deep inside her tote bag.

  “Ready?” Tim appeared from the hall.

  “No, I mean, yes, I’m ready.” She hurried to the door.

  They drove to Farmington in silence, interrupted once after twenty minutes by Tim’s cell phone. It was Ruby.

  "Sam’s fever climbed to one hundred
four," Tim informed her. The creases in his forehead deepened, indicating a growing worry.

  “Is he going to be okay?” She spun the old ring nervously around her finger.

  “I hope so.” Tim’s eyes never left the road.

  The miles stretched as Gretta’s thoughts bounced from Sam, to the letter, to her family. She didn’t know which frightened her more.

  Thirty minutes later the cruiser parked in front of her house. Gretta hesitated, not wanting to face her family.

  Tim’s phone beeped. A text. “No change,” he read out loud.

  Her heart burst in her chest.

  This is my fault.

  She watched her fingers fumble with the door handle when Tim grabbed her other arm.

  “Hey, you all right?” he asked.

  Gretta fought back tears. How could he concern himself with me when his son is fighting a deadly bacterial infection? Far from being all right, she knew what she had to do.

  “Tell Sam I’m sorry. It isn’t safe. I’m so sorry.” She stumbled out of the car and ran to the front porch, Tim following slowly.

  Her yellow comforter remained bunched on one end of the swing.

  Less than two weeks ago I bundled in my comforter here to escape Bobby’s drum music. Mom handed me a soft leather pouch that contained a note and the garnet ring. My high school graduation gift from Grandma.

  Tim reached from behind her to open the front door. Gretta spun and hugged him fiercely.

  Without a word, she released him and walked inside. The door clicked behind her. Voices in the kitchen halted. She leaned against the door, took a deep breath, and prayed her family would believe the lies she rehearsed.