What's a Soulmate?

by Lindsey Ouimet

  It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter because I’ve been asking myself almost the exact same questions. I might have never put much thought into the kind of person I was meant to spend the rest of my life with, but I cannot deny Andrew is not someone I anticipated. I pictured something different. I pictured more than someone in a dingy jumpsuit, in a dingy room, with absolutely no desire to even speak to me.

  So yeah. I guess I could say I am, in fact, feeling kind of off.

  “Gee thanks, Mom. You know I always appreciate your honesty,” I say with a smile she must know is forced.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. You look great.” She rolls her eyes and spears another green bean with her fork. “You look like me, kid—you always look great.”

  I roll my eyes right back at her.

  I know a lot of times, when we’re little, we always think our mom is the most beautiful woman in the world. She’s the standard to which we hold all other women. She’s pretty, and she’s smart, and she makes good cookies. Then we hit a certain age where we realize we’re probably wrong and suffering from a serious case of hero worship. I never really reached that point. My mother is absolutely beautiful, but while I do take after her in certain ways, there’s no way I’d ever compare myself to her on a scale of homely to handsome.

  And I thought all of that before I could see her in her full, color-filled glory.

  True, we have the same color hair. But hers is long, and sleek, and with just the right amount of wave, giving her an old film ingénue feel. Mine is kinky, and curly, and so thick and unruly it tacks an extra inch or two onto my height. Her features are a mix of both strong and feminine—a long, straight nose with full, wide lips. My nose is small and turns up slightly on the end, and my mouth, with also full lips, is narrow and in what borders on a near constant pucker.

  My father says I look like a living doll. And while I don’t think I’ve been cursed in the looks department by any means, I’d gladly take looking like my mother as much as she seems to think I do.

  “Just thinking about this thing I was roped into signing up for at school,” I say, hoping to cover up my lie with a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Well, more like trying not to think about it.”

  “And what’s that?”

  I glance over at my father, already dressed in his uniform and ready to leave for work as soon as we finish with dinner.

  I offer a closed mouth smile, fully aware it resembles a grimace more than anything else.

  “Prom committee.”

  My parents exchange a look. The look that says, ‘We won’t dare laugh at our daughter’s misfortune, right? Don’t you dare laugh and make me laugh.’ I level them each with a glare.

  “That sounds … fun,” my mom offers impartially.

  “Ugh, Mom. No. It most certainly does not.” At least I don’t have to worry about a lie showing through on my face when I say this. “The only reason I’d even planned on going was because Beth wanted me to.”

  I don’t know what it is about prom that has me so vehemently against it, to be honest. I like music. I like to dance. I like spending time with my friends. I guess I don’t want to build it up to be this great night everybody claims it to be, a night I’ll regret missing out on years down the road if I don’t go, only to have it turn out like any other Saturday night. Only with fancy clothes and way too much money being spent. Or maybe it’s because even months ago, I doubted I would have a date. The idea of having one now … I don’t even know.

  “I don’t really want to talk about it though. What’s, uh… What’s going on with you guys?”

  Blank looks. On both of their faces.

  It’s not like we don’t talk about what’s going on in their lives ever. Okay, so maybe I’m not usually the one to bring it up in conversation, but still. Shit. How do I make this about me? That’s what I would normally do, right? What any seventeen-year-old would do?

  Which is what I am… A normal seventeen-year-old. Who’s just met her Soulmate and is in the process of accepting he’s a criminal…

  “No one’s mentioned me making a complete fool of myself at your office last week, have they?”

  A soft look crosses my father’s face and a stab of guilt smacks me square in the chest.

  “Not at all, honey.” He grins. “Maybe wait a little longer before you open your soda next time.”

  “Or I could remember to grab them beforehand for once,” I mumble to myself, and then sit up straight as a thought hits me. “The officer who helped me clean up. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”

  “McElroy?”

  I shrug, obviously not sure of her name, and he goes on to provide information I don’t even have to try to pry out of him. “Yeah, she’s usually working Intake throughout the week. She’s good people.”

  I cringe internally before my next words.

  “She doesn’t get nervous? Booking all of those kids? I saw the line that came in on Friday. Some of those guys looked pretty big. Mean, too.”

  Now I lie very much in the ‘anything men can do, women can do just as well’ camp, so the look he gives me is not really a surprise. He leans in a little, and sets his fork down on his plate.

  “Patricia can handle herself. Why do you ask, Libby? None of those boys said anything to you, did they?”

  “No, no! Nothing like that. I guess I just … I wonder, is it hard to be around them all day? Knowing the things some of them have done?”

  His shoulders relax and the worry line between his brows disappears as he leans back in his chair.

  “It can be. Most of them really are good kids at heart. Being born into certain situations can sometimes make it hard though. Hell, for some of them, being locked up is probably the best thing that could happen.”

  I see my mom nod out of the corner of my eye and I mull over that information for a moment.

  “So what, is it more like a … I don’t know, like a rehab program for those kids?”

  Dad sops up the remaining gravy from his potatoes with a roll and nods before taking a bite.

  “Yeah, I guess you could look at it that way. Of course we have actual rehabilitation programs in place as well. But sure.”

  And I can’t help it. I don’t even know if it applies, but I have to ask.

  “What about the ones who shouldn’t actually be there? I’m sure they all say they didn’t do it, or whatever, but what about the ones who are telling the truth?”

  I’ve either overstepped some invisible line, or allowed this conversation to go on a little too long because my dad’s brow furrows once again, and he kind of cracks a smile.

  “You don’t have some big plans I need to know about before you turn eighteen, do you, kid?”

  ****

  Monday comes around and the week starts over much the same as the last one did. I’m still trying my best to learn about and not feel quite so overwhelmed by the abundance of color in my world, and I can barely think straight in most classes but manage to get by without too much effort.

  Oh, and I’m walking on eggshells around Beth again. Because I missed our frozen yogurt date. For the second weekend in a row. Because I’m a terrible friend. The odd thing is she really doesn’t seem all too bothered by it. I called on Sunday to apologize for being such a spazz, she only laughed and said she’d figure out a way for me to make it up to her.

  It’s hard to tell with Beth, though. I’m going to prepare and brace myself for an oncoming storm just in case. And hope making it up to her doesn’t involve anything illegal.

  I spend my hours at school either doodling more stalker/serial killer memos in the margins of my notes or obsessing over the way the guidance counselor has yellowed nicotine stains on her fingertips. There’s really no contest though. Over the course of the week, I manage to learn a lot more about the people I’ve gone to school with for the past thirteen years than I do about Andrew McCormack. I mean, I guess I can count the fact I know he doesn’t have nicotine stains on his fingers… Ev
en then, the tally still fails to come close.

  Although meeting after school on Wednesday with the prom committee—ugh, it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth—did prove beneficial. Maybe there’s something to be said for hanging out with Taryn Messer after all.

  Who knew the youth leadership lifestyle gave one the inside scoop on all of the gossip around town?

  Who knew I was a horrible enough person to use someone’s relationship with God for my own personal gain?

  Again, let me reiterate, I’m going to hell.

  But I’m going there with more information about Andrew! Okay, so that doesn’t sound like such a great trade off when I think about it.

  Regardless of how I come about the information—Taryn’s best friend, Alice, attends and is a youth leader at some small church with an irrelevant, and frankly already forgotten, name. In her youth group is one Madeline Evans. Madeline Evans, as it turns out and I find out later once I get home, is she of glittery, emoji-filled FriendSpace profile glory. And apparently? When not searching for more fluffy, flashing kittens for her page, has been talking Alice’s ear off about ‘this whole Andrew thing’.

  Before I even realize it, I spin around and knock a—thankfully closed—bottle of water onto the floor.

  “Andrew McCormack?”

  Taryn looks surprised. Probably because I’ve spoken at all, considering the way I’ve basically become a mute over the last forty-five minutes.

  “You know him?”

  “Um… Not really. He’s the guy who got arrested for beating up the cop, right?”

  Why do I feel weird talking about him to anyone else? Why do I feel something along the lines of guilty? Like I don’t want anyone to associate his name with an act of violence that, for God’s sake, he’s already been arrested for. Why do I feel so protective?

  “That’s him.”

  “My dad, you know, he’s an officer at the Clarkesville Juvenile Detention Center. He’s mentioned the name.”

  And then I turn back to the table and pretend not to eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation. And hope I don’t look like a complete psychopath. I’m able to gather the following information to add to ‘the list’:

  - His younger brother is eight years old, not eleven, and isn’t it a shame how he has to deal with all of this trauma in his life at such a young age? Taryn actually uses the word ‘tender’, but I am not an eighty-year-old granny, and refuse to say it.

  - His mother, Angela McCormack, is a nurse at Saint Mary’s Memorial Hospital.

  - Ms. McCormack must be feeling awfully guilty because she’s been spending at least an hour before or after each of her shifts in Officer Jordan’s room in the ICU.

  - Andrew has always been a polite, respectable young man despite never having an active father figure. This information straight from Miss Madeline Evans herself, who still believes this whole thing must be some kind of mistake.

  I sit and listen, and fake my way through a conversation with a girl from my chemistry class about balloon distributors. On the drive home, I wonder if Andrew’s had any visitors today. I wonder if he expected me to be there like I said I would. Something that feels a lot like guilt settles back into my stomach.

  I pull out my phone and make an appointment for another Saturday visitation as soon as I’m parked in the driveway.

  I meet Beth at Frenchie’s a little before lunch on Saturday and spend a good half of the hour we’re together trying to shake loose the nerves that’ve crept their way back into my system. Aside from her observation of my looking ‘a little dressy for froyo’, she seems oblivious to any of my discomfort. I guess having, and I quote, ‘a seriously hot makeout session’, in the back of Ryan’s Jeep the night before does that to her.

  I’m actually laughing like an idiot by the time we hug goodbye and the good feeling lasts almost until I’m pulling into the Center’s parking lot. I left the bracelet at home this time, tucked back away on my mother’s jewelry tray where it belongs, but I still pull the sleeves of my sweater down over my hands as I approach the metal detectors. Mostly because, like last time, it’s absolutely freezing in here.

  I tell myself I’ll be prepared when he sits down across from me this week, but I’m not. Not by a long shot.

  I feel like I’ve barely settled into my chair when there he is. I watch him this time, seeing how he braces one arm against the seat as he lowers himself into it. I shouldn’t be as caught up in his forearms as I am, and look up to see him with the same look on his face as last Saturday. Yup. A blank one that lends itself to absolutely nothing.

  “Hi.”

  My voice is a little shaky and, again, I hate how small I feel. And the way I totally forgot to pick up the phone and greeted him like there isn’t a freaking inch and a half-thick pane of glass between us. My hand slips on the receiver and I fumble to pick it up. I know I’ve gone red, completely and utterly red, but I wait for him to hold the other end in his hand.

  “Hi,” I repeat, a little louder this time. A bit more firm. A bit more like I’m talking to someone hard of hearing, but whatever.

  And still nothing. Radio silence. I get a nod, and nothing else.

  Honestly, I don’t know what I expected.

  His eyes drop to my wrist and, call it a hunch, but I’m sure he’s looking for the bracelet. I pull my sleeve down a little more and feel my mouth tighten into a line of irritation. I wore it for him last week, and if he didn’t want to talk about it then, I’m certainly not going to talk about it now.

  In fact, if he doesn’t want to talk, then that’s exactly what we’ll do.

  Precisely thirty seconds pass before I start thinking it was a terrible idea to come back here. I should leave. I should stand up, walk out, and never look back. That would get me nowhere just as fast though, and I’ve got to hang on to the hope I’ll eventually get some kind of answer out of him.

  He’s either staring at my hair or a spot right over the top of my head—I can’t tell which, and I ignore the urge to tamp down the curls with my hand. I got over all my feelings of self-consciousness when it came to my hair years ago, and I refuse to let any regression happen here today because of him.

  Him and his eagle-eyed stare.

  I’m starting to think I’ve been wasting my time looking. That there’s not a word out there for the color of his eyes.

  I still have the same list of questions to ask, but right now there are others that seem to take precedent.

  Why won’t you talk to me?

  Do you even care I’m here right now?

  Are you going to admit you lied to me any time soon? Are you going to admit you do know why I’m here?

  Even though there are other people in the room, people who are actually speaking to the person they came to visit, it’s so quiet I can hear the clock ticking on the wall beside me. I can match my heartbeat to the cadence of the second hand and concentrate on that for so long the sound of Andrew swallowing on the other end of the line actually startles me. I jump a little and the smallest hint of a smile crosses his face. I glare at him, something it feels like I’ve done a lot of in our combined time together of less than half an hour, to let him know he may be amused by my jumpiness, but it has nothing to do with him.

  I don’t want him to think I’m afraid of him.

  Because, it hits me like a ton of bricks, I’m really not.

  He has been silent, and brooding, and downright determined to make me feel uncomfortable with both of those things. But he isn’t scary. And maybe it’s because I’m so caught up in trying to figure out exactly what he is, like some kind of puzzle, that I haven’t had time to decide if that’s even a possibility.

  It should be, right? He’s locked up. On the other side of what is probably bulletproof glass, with guns. Guards with guns. No matter what some girl in a church youth group says, he has been labeled as violent and segregated from the public.

  He should be scary. I should be scared. Shouldn’t I?

  He’s a big guy—I no
ticed this last time—with big fists and strong-looking arms. And he white knuckles the phone receiver like it’s his job. And he has a tattoo! What seventeen-year-old has a tattoo? Well, obviously one who also finds himself stuck in a detention center, but that’s beside the point.

  Maybe it’s his just rolled out of bed hair, or the eyes I’m deciding right this second look more sad than they do hard or harsh. Maybe it’s how I can still hear the echo of his voice from last week and the way it makes something in my chest ache even though I can’t for the life of me figure out why.

  I reach up to pat my hair down without realizing it, his unwavering attention to it momentarily overpowering my will. He blinks and I’m pretty sure this time I’m the one who’s managed to startle him. I can feel one corner of my mouth pull up and I bite the inside of my cheek to fight it.

  The officer on Andrew’s side of the glass starts to check his watch and gives the universal wrap it up signal to the one on my side. I hear the deep, authoritative voice come from somewhere behind me, but don’t take my eyes away from Andrew’s. He fidgets in his seat and leans forward. His features soften and my throat starts to feel tight for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

  I don’t know what’s about to happen, but when his gaze flicks over to where the first inmate is being ushered out of his seat, my heart starts to beat harder in my chest.

  His voice is as deep as I remember, but lower this time. More rushed.

  “What color is that?”

  I blink.

  What? What color is what?

  I assume the blank look on my face must say all of that for me because he nods a little and looks back at the top of my head.

  “Your hair. What color is it?”

  Oh God. I don’t know why it hits me so hard because I knew he had to have been lying before, but oh God. I try to open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I try again.

  “You can see—” I’m cut off by the look on his face. It’s one that says whatever I have to say right now can wait. That we don’t have much time as it is.

  He’s right, but it doesn’t mean I don’t feel the sting of resentment. If he wanted to know this so badly, he could’ve asked me at any time over the last fifteen minutes. It’s not my fault he chose to hold that telephone up to his ear and proceed to waste both of our time.