What's a Soulmate?

by Lindsey Ouimet

  “My parents were young when they met, I guess. Even though I’m pretty sure they don’t actually count.”

  He doesn’t ask, but it’s not like I give him time to. I’m not even sure I’m really breathing in between words or sentences. I only hope I don’t pass out from oxygen deprivation before our fifteen minutes are up. I continue to vomit the words into the space between us.

  “They met in college. My mom was twenty-two which, when I think about it, is pretty close to twenty-five. Anyway, she and my dad have an … interesting situation. It basically boils down to the fact that he’s her Soulmate, but she’s not his. People seemed okay with them dating each other, but when they decided to get married, his parents decided they’d rather not have anything to do with him. And when I was born… Well, when I was born, my dad started to see in color. So, I mean, they did get their happy ending, but it was hard, and … and I have no idea why I’m telling you any of this.”

  My face is hot and I wish I had something to fan myself with. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still freezing in this place, but I think the hot sting of embarrassment is putting up a pretty good fight against the chill right about now.

  “Maybe I’m trying to convince myself nothing’s perfect. Not even Soulmates.”

  Especially Soulmates, I almost add.

  He studies my face for a moment. It’s hard not to squirm, and I wonder for a second if this is how he feels every time I sit across from him. I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me. Or even what he’s looking for, but when he shrugs one shoulder and glances down at his lap with a sort of crooked smirk, I think he must have found it.

  “Soulmates, or not, I’m sure you could do better.”

  I bite down on my bottom lip until it starts to hurt a little. I don’t know why, but something about the sentence makes me feel ashamed of myself. I take the phone away from my ear so he can’t hear the way my breathing’s turned ragged. He doesn’t say anything else when I return it. He doesn’t even blink.

  “Maybe that’s why I’m here,” I say, realizing in this very moment what I’m about to say is the absolute truth. “To find out if you’re better than this.”

  ****

  Since the prom committee resumed its regular meeting time on Wednesday, it feels like even more than a week has passed when I pull into the Center’s parking lot. I’m early since Beth had to cut our frozen yogurt date short in order to go to some family thing with Ryan and his parents.

  Yes, they have already reached the meet the parents stage.

  I admit it was pretty cute how nervous she was. And the way Ryan managed to sneak up on her from behind and nab a kiss on the cheek before she even realized he was there. That was pretty cute, too. Jerks.

  Not like I’m jealous, though. I most certainly am not. I’ve dated guys before. Not for very long, or anything, but that’s beside the point. The cute, mushy, coupley stuff didn’t do it for me. Beth says it’s because I never let myself ‘get invested’, whatever that means.

  As I rifle through the open binder in my lap, I think maybe she’s right. I’ve spent the last seven days poring through any new Internet article I can get my hands on. Sometime between last weekend and yesterday, Andrew’s name was given to the press. The absolute outrage I felt surprised me at first. I channeled my outrage into an undeniable thirst for more information though. I didn’t fall asleep until nearly 3:00 this morning and woke up with a crick in my neck from leaning in too close to my computer screen.

  This is the most invested I’ve ever been. In maybe anything. I haven’t even turned my sewing machine on in over three weeks.

  The female officer, McElroy who was on duty that day leads everyone down the hallway to the visitation room and follows us in. I prefer her to the other, surly guy with the big, booming voice that always catches me off guard. She offers me a smile when I pass through the doorway, and I nod. God, I hope she doesn’t recognize me as anything other than another visitor. As another administrator-approved youth leader.

  When Andrew sits down, there are still bags underneath his eyes, but I note his posture seems a little more relaxed than it did last week. He surprises me again by picking up the phone first. There’s absolutely no hesitation when he speaks.

  “I’m not.”

  I almost have to ask exactly what he’s talking about, but I guess the blank look on my face is enough of a response.

  “Better than this.” He bobs his head, and then brings his hand up to push a curl from his forehead. “I’m really not.”

  Well, I don’t really think a lot of things about myself that others do, so you’ll just have to deal with it, buddy. I don’t attempt to hide my frustration as I grit my teeth.

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  He sighs and instead of exasperation, it’s a sad, defeated sound.

  “With all due respect, you don’t even know me.”

  “First of all, can it with all the hardass crap.” I lean forward, my voice taking on a higher tone that, to my dismay, does sound a little haughty and precisely in line with the nickname. “Second of all, I don’t need to know you to think you might be better than this.”

  I don’t know if it’s my words grabbing his attention right now, or how I’m about two seconds away from completely losing my temper.

  “Your boss at the hardware store seems to think you’re better than this. Your friends think so. Your coach and teachers think so. And your little brother certainly does.”

  He pushes his chair back sharply, and his knuckles go white as his grip on the phone and counter tightens. I knew before I opened my big mouth bringing up his brother was a risky move, but I want him to actually listen to me, damn it. Listen. Not only hear.

  His voice is as tight as the line of his spine.

  “Not a single one of those people have taken the time to stop by and see me.” He closes his eyes for a brief moment, and when he opens them they somehow look even more intense. “Have you been talking to them?”

  “I didn’t have to,” I say in a much softer voice. He obviously doesn’t know, and I have no idea how he’s going to take the news. “I don’t know how or when exactly, but your name was leaked to the press sometime in the past week. They’ve all been interviewed.”

  It looks like someone’s let all the air out of him as his muscles go slack. I worry for a split second and lean forward as his face loses its color. The phone is cradled somewhere in his lap now, below the line of the counter, and his head is dropped in the same direction. He’s mumbling something, but I’m sure it’s more to himself than to me, so I sit and wait as he processes this information.

  It’s probably a full sixty seconds later when he puts the receiver back to his ear. He’s not looking at me though, his head somewhere else entirely.

  “I can,” I start, and then have to swallow before I go on. “I can try to pass along a message to them if you want.”

  He shakes his head and looks me dead in the eye.

  “Look. I don’t know what you’ve deluded yourself into thinking. But if you think I’m innocent, you’re wrong.” He bites into his lower lip hard enough to see the blood drain from the skin under his teeth. “I did it. I waited for him outside of his apartment. We argued. And I got angry enough to not care if I knocked him on his ass, or not. I got angry enough to not notice the blood on my hands until it was all over with.”

  His hand trembles slightly before he runs it over the back of his neck, and he drops it back to his lap before he continues.

  “It’s probably for the best that you stay as far away from this mess as possible.”

  Yeah, I think it’s too late for that.

  Chapter Eight

  I got such little sleep last night I think I might actually be making myself sick. Whether it’s from worry or exhaustion, I haven’t decided. I only know I shut my laptop around 4:00 this morning and woke up at 10:00 with a splitting headache and feeling more drained than I did before falling asleep.

  I shuffle into
the kitchen and collapse at the table, reaching a hand out toward my father like he’s my only hope of survival. I sniff the air. At least there’s bacon. I guess.

  Dad hasn’t even had a chance to change out of his uniform. It and the pitiful, ‘poor baby’ look on his face are at odds with each other, and that’s almost enough to turn my grimace into a smile.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

  He slides a glass of water in front of me and I take a sip. Mom walks into the kitchen, takes one look at me, and quirks her head to the side in question.

  “I have no idea, but you should probably start preparing your eulogies. I fear I am not long for this world.”

  Mom snorts and dishes scrambled eggs and hash browns onto a plate.

  “You must not be feeling too poorly if you’re still pulling out sentences like that.” She pops a strip of bacon into her mouth and still somehow manages to look as lovely as ever as she talks around it. “Although it is a weekend, so you’re probably not faking.”

  I stretch my arm out on the table and lay my head on top of it.

  “Your words wound me.”

  “Case in point.” She laughs. “If you’re feeling that poorly, I guess we can find another day to check out the fabric store.”

  Shit. I completely forgot about that. She smiles like it’s no big deal though. Which I guess it really isn’t, but still.

  Dad leans down to kiss her forehead and then rounds the table to do the same to mine. He wraps a curl around his index finger—having learned years ago if you playfully muss a curly girl’s hair it’s only a recipe for knots and snarls—and presses the back of his hand to the skin he’s just kissed.

  “You don’t feel warm.”

  “It’s not a big deal. Only a headache. Drill a hole in my skull to relieve the pressure, and I’ll be fine.”

  I try to wave him off, but he’s always been a hoverer when I’m sick. After feeding me, nagging me, and eventually medicating me, he sends me back up to bed. I don’t argue. I only wish my room was closer and not up a flight of stairs.

  It’s nearly 3:00 PM when I jerk myself awake. The house is quiet, but whatever’s going on inside my head is not. I vaguely remember my dream. Something involving newspaper headlines and people throwing plastic bottles and other bits of trash at my head as I walked into a courthouse. And a pair of eyes. Andrew’s. I don’t know if we were having a conversation or exactly what was going on, but they looked older. Sadder. And there was still a thick sheet of glass separating me from them.

  I felt uneasy in the dream, and even more uneasy while awake.

  I stretch out, straightening my back and legs from their hunched position. It’s almost like I was trying to make myself as small as possible in order to avoid the things being thrown and the hurt in those eyes. I haven’t had such a physical reaction to a dream like this in years.

  Trying to shake myself out of whatever this is, I roll toward my nightstand and grab my phone. No missed calls, but there’s a text from Beth asking me to call her when I get the chance. My head doesn’t hurt anymore, but I’m still tired and don’t think I can sit through a thirty-minute conversation about Ryan, Ryan’s parents, and whatever adorably nerdy, new thing he’s done for her right now.

  I lie in bed for a while longer, staring at the popcorn ceiling, absently tracing imaginary shapes with my eyes and failing to ignore this weird, niggling feeling in the back of my mind. I’m sure it’s because I spent so much time yesterday and the day before, and, let’s face it, the day before that, and before that, going over all of those articles I found online, I ended up dreaming in headlines.

  And I’ve never been the kind of person who puts much faith into the whole meaning behind dreams, but this one won’t leave me alone. I toss the covers off and crawl to the end of the mattress to haul my backpack over the foot of the bed. Ten seconds later, I have the binder with each article I’ve printed out opened across on my lap.

  There are five articles in all, and each one is essentially a rewrite of the one before it, offering no new information, only a different byline and words that have been slightly reorganized. I don’t know what possessed me to print them out in the first place, but as I lay them out, side by side, I’m glad I did.

  Officer’s Attacker Identified

  McCormack Awaiting Trial in Juvenile Detention Facility

  Assailant in Jordan Case Revealed

  McCormack Described as Likable Leader among Peers

  New Details in Off Duty Police Officer Attack Emerge

  Except, like I said, there are no new details. At least not on the actual attack like the last headline promises. No, instead there’s a name attached to the previously unknown, faceless attacker. A name and numerous interviews with students and teachers from Andrew’s school.

  His coach and his boss, like I told him yesterday, were interviewed earlier last week. Unlike the vast majority of his classmates, they actually had more to offer than the standard, ‘he’s always been a really nice guy’.

  Hardware store owner, Rich McMillan, praises McCormack’s work ethic and organizational skills, saying he’s always been great with the customers and ‘probably knows this store better than I do’.

  McCormack’s Varsity soccer coach, Daniel Callaway, notes how his star forward has never missed a day of practice or shown any signs of aggression on the field. It should also be noted Andrew assisted in coaching one of the county’s youth soccer teams, the Dawsonville Devils.

  And nothing else. That’s all the ‘new’ information they have. All about Andrew, nothing bad, and not a single thing about the actual incident. Actually, thinking back on all of the other articles I’ve read, the ones still stored in my browser history and not in the binder, I can’t recall reading one thing about the actual attack.

  Ten minutes later, I discover it’s because other than the fact Officer Jordan was found unconscious at the scene, there are no details. And, now that I have it all laid out in front of me, it’s also glaringly obvious how aside from ‘Officer Jordan, serving more than fifteen years on the force’, there’s been nothing reported about the victim either.

  We know he was off duty. We know he’s a cop. We know roughly how many years he’s been a cop. And okay, yeah, there’s a tiny bit of one article that covers a few of his accomplishments as an officer throughout the years, but nothing else.

  I spend so long thinking about it my headache comes back and I have to go back downstairs for more painkillers. I settle back in after dinner and return to the world of Internet search engines and what starts to look more and more like a wild goose chase.

  Running a search on Officer Benjamin Jordan returns at least a half a million hits. The first few results, while relevant, are nothing I haven’t already seen. Links to the same news articles with exactly zero new or useful things to tell me. There’s one piece on some drug bust he assisted in a while back, but it only mentions him by name.

  I click on a link for the Clarkesville County Police Dept.’s FriendSpace page, of all things, and find a post there dated a little over two weeks ago. I skim the text on the screen, but it’s really more or less the same.

  The Clarkesville County Police Department would like to thank everyone for their support and concern regarding our own Officer Jordan. Any charitable donations for Officer Jordan will be accepted at our Dawsonville precinct.

  That’s it. I click around a little until I find his personal FriendSpace page. There’s not a ton of info—lives in Monroe, a little town on the opposite end of the county from Dawsonville, married, graduated from the local community college. The profile picture is of a good-looking guy, maybe in his early to mid-forties, smirking up at whoever is taking the shot. He looks vaguely familiar, but I’ve been to so many company picnics, parties, and get-togethers with my dad it’s hard to tell if we’ve actually met before.

  ****

  By the end of the week, I’m no closer to learning anything about the victim or the assault itself. And I’m so stress
ed out with trying to connect the person I’ve been visiting who, for all intents and purposes, seems like a regular, irritating, but actually kind of sweet guy, with the criminal who put a cop into the hospital, as well as a coma. Oh, and not being able to talk about it. That’s pretty stressful, too.

  Add in trying to be a supportive best friend to a girl who is simultaneously falling in love with, and worried about falling in love with a boy who is not her Soulmate. And pretending I didn’t see all of the absolutely amazing and breathtaking colors my mother had to choose from when we finally made it to the fabric store on Tuesday. And prom committee. It’s not a daunting task, but my God, who knew there were so many things to decide on for a freaking dance?

  So yeah. I’m stressed, but at least I’m not locked up inside a juvenile detention facility, I think as I pull into the parking lot for another Saturday visitation. Nope. I just have a Soulmate who is.

  Fantastic.

  I’m early again, but too antsy to sit in the car until it’s time to go in. Early or not, the waiting area is almost full when I enter, so I stand off to the side. I lean against the wall, but practically leap away from it as soon as the cold from the glaze-covered concrete seeps through the back of my sweater.

  “Freezing, isn’t it?”

  I turn to find Officer McElroy smiling at me. She gestures to the long-sleeved top of her uniform and gives a little shrug. “They may not be the prettiest, but at least the material’s thick.”

  My attitude so far with any of the officers on duty has pretty much been to keep my head down and my mouth shut, but I find myself smiling at her.

  “Yeah. You’d think I’d have learned to bring my coat in by now.”

  She chuckles a little and then moves on toward the check-in desk to talk to the guard there. I watch her as she goes, zeroing in on her hand as it swings at her side. There’s a wedding band on her ring finger and a small, shining green stone at the center of the one nestled above it. An emerald, I think it’s called. It’s only a tiny thing really, but in comparison to the gray, utilitarian atmosphere of where she works, it must be a comfort to be able to look down and see it on her finger.