by Dee Willson
“Lots of fun things to do this year.” I scan the area. The playground is divided into sections and scattered among the games are adults gathered in conversation, their kids running amuck. Although the fair is a fundraiser run by the school’s parent council, for most the fall fair is a chance to socialize with local families while the kids burn steam.
“Let’s get the games in first,” says Thomas. “The prizes are candy. Sugar can do its thing while the girls run the maze.”
Smart man. Meyer would’ve made the same suggestion.
We each buy a roll of tickets and make our way to the dart game, where the lady manning the booth is dressed like Anne of Green Gables, pigtails and all. Before I have the audacity to suggest Halloween is over, we move to the next game, where the girls oh and ah over the ring-pop prize. They aim and throw but neither come anywhere close to the hoop, so Thomas forks over another round of tickets and grabs a ball. I watch him align the basketball, his expression that of a young boy, and I’m struck by how normal this feels, how easy it is to be with Thomas and his daughter. Even Abby seems at peace when we’re together.
Like a pro, Thomas sinks three balls in a row, then claiming his prizes, turns to me with a candy ring.
“I do,” I say on impulse, and Thomas’s ears turn red.
It’s been an amazing day. The kid’s feed their tickets to the gargoyle guarding the haunted maze and take off, running through the cobwebs and plastic spiders that surround the entrance. Thomas, looking to cause trouble, follows close on their heels while I make my way to the exit, elbow deep in cotton candy. I can hear Abby’s laugh, the sound muffled by mountains of hay, and Sofia’s cries to Thomas, who thumps his feet heavily on the ground, growling. Shrill screams bellow from somewhere in the maze, and a few minutes later Sofia darts from the exit followed by Abby, yelling “again, again!”
Thomas comes out panting but smiling. “That was fun,” he says.
I suck cotton candy from my thumb. “They’ve gone back in.”
“Awesome.” Thomas’s mischievous laugh follows him through the exit.
A strange sound catches my attention, alerting my stomach. It sounds like an animal’s whimper or moan. I pace the perimeter of the maze, slowly. The noise stops and I pause, trying to ground myself to its location, but I can’t place it. Part of me dreads the thought of finding a dying animal, and part of me worries for Abby’s safety. What if she were to stumble across something in pain or afraid?
I scan the grounds. There is nothing but hay bales and acres of open field dotted with people. For some reason the man/thing from the café comes to mind. The woman in his arms made similar sounds. A nervous chill inches up my spine but I ignore it, walking until I come full circle. Screams hit me from the left, and I jump, cotton candy laced spit running down my chin.
“Ha, ha,” Thomas cries, flying from the maze, his entire body shaking with laughter. He picks me up with one arm, swinging me in circles. My hand is still buried in cotton candy, so I have trouble balancing when my feet touch the ground.
“Do that again and I’ll puke blue,” I say, laughing.
This feels better. The lack of sleep has my imagination on overdrive, on edge, and I’m not sure what scares me more: seeing something freaky again, something that proves I’m going mad, or Abby witnessing my insanity. I shake the thought, determined to put bad images to rest and enjoy the day. Thomas is amazing with kids. He gets Abby laughing, giving her the male attention she needs. This makes me think of Meyer and our days out as a family. I’d give anything to give that life back to Abby. Anything.
The girls run from the maze, pleading, wanting to go through again.
“Later, monsters, there is still lots to do here,” I say, ruffling Sofia’s dark curls. “While I man the craft table, your dad will take the two of you to the book sale and to play more games.” I glance at my watch, figuring I’ve got an extra five minutes to find a bathroom before heading for the gym. I gather the remaining tickets and hand them to Thomas, watching him shake his head.
“I’ll use mine for now.” He snatches the tickets from my hand, tucking them into my coat pocket. “When we switch, you take them to the games we miss.”
Thomas volunteered for the bouncy castle and his one-hour shift starts right after mine.
“Deal.” I kiss Abby goodbye and stick my bright-blue tongue out at Thomas.
“Best five bucks I ever spent,” he says to my back as I walk away.
There are two women at the craft booth, and as I approach one grabs her purse from under the tablecloth skirting, preparing to leave. She picks at paint splatters on her shirtsleeves, obviously displeased. She mumbles goodbye to the other woman, the mother of a boy in Abby’s class. I don’t know her name.
“So,” the lady says, “we’re painting white T-shirts for five bucks a pop.” At one end of the table, a stack of folded white cotton shirts sits, and scattered about the other end are tubes of fabric paint in various colors. String is duct-taped to the wall behind the table, displaying newly painted masterpieces. “Make sure you write a name on each shirt to ensure the correct one is collected. Parents get testy when their kid’s art goes missing. Oh, and the money box is on the chair behind the table.” She turns to leave. “Good luck.”
I’m confident I can manage without requiring luck’s involvement. Art is my thing.
I’m on one knee shoving my coat under the table when black leather boots appear an inch from my face. My eyes follow snug jeans to a leather motorcycle jacket, James Dean minus the cigarette. I grip the table, pulling myself to standing, staring at the scarf that throws my head into tiny spirals.
“What’s the deal, boss?” says Bryce, shrugging off his coat.
“The deal?”
“I volunteered to help with the craft table. You’re the artist by trade, so I’ve appointed you governor.”
I haven’t seen Bryce since the day he stopped by to apologize, and something about his one-sided grin and windblown hair makes my stomach do flip-flops.
“Oh. Okay.” It hadn’t dawned on me that my shift partner hadn’t appeared yet. Or that she’d be a he in the form of Adonis. “Well, hello then.”
“Hello.” He’s obviously pleased he caught me by surprise.
Within minutes I’ve gone over the instructions, and due to a lack of clientele we have nothing to do but chat.
“Is your niece enjoying the fair?” I ask.
“She’s home sick, actually. I was looking forward to bringing her today, but she woke this morning complaining of a stomachache. Her father thought it best she stay home and rest.”
“That’s too bad. At least you won’t catch what she’s got.” I smile then quickly purse my lips, hoping I don’t have blue teeth.
“No worries, I don’t get sick,” he says.
“Never?”
“Never.”
He must be joking. Who never gets sick?
Customers wander over to our booth, twin sisters. They each hand Bryce five dollars while I dig for shirts their size. They’re debating what to paint on their shirts when Bryce suggests they get help. “She’s a professional artist,” he says, pointing a thumb in my direction.
The girls seem pleased with the recommendation, probing me for advice. Bryce steps to the side, tucking his hands behind his back, allowing me center stage. This is right up my alley. I ask a few questions about their likes and dislikes then suggest they close their eyes, which they do. I tell them to listen to the sounds around them, to take a deep breath, and to think of things that make them happy. Then I instruct them to say the first thing that comes to mind.
“Candy,” says one.
“Friends,” says the other.
“That’s what you paint on your shirt,” I say, pleased with the results.
Bryce beams, vastly entertained, and the girls get to work.
“I have a confession to make,” says Bryce. He’s being playful, leaning in close, pretending to gaze in the opposite direction. It’s all
for show.
“Uh, oh. That’s never a good opener.”
He crosses his arms and turns, a mischievous grin igniting his eyes. “What’s wrong with confessions?”
“If you have something to confess, then you were doing something crooked to start with.”
“You never do anything wrong, anything you need to own up to later?”
“No,” I say. Liar.
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Ever?”
“Nope.”
“Hmm,” he hums through puckered lips.
I laugh. “Maybe you shouldn’t taint me with your criminal intent.” I’m joking, of course. I’m no saint, and I stole the magazine from the spa not too long ago. Still, I enjoy our easy banter.
“You might be right,” he says. He seems to stare right through me. “You’re as pure as they come. I promise not to rub off on you.” He rubs his forearm against my shoulder, releasing a throaty chuckle.
I play along. “Confess, my son.”
“When I signed up for the fair, I put my name down for the sucker pull game.” He hesitates for a moment. “Then I noticed you’d volunteered for the craft table, so I switched to be with you.”
I’m not really sure what to say. I suppose I’m flattered, but it’s been years since a man’s been so forward, and I find myself a fish out of water. Should I be freaking out? Should I fall at his feet?
“All right,” I say, my voice barely audible.
Bryce stands tall, relaxed and unfazed. “I’m not stalking you. I just wanted to get you alone, to ask you out.”
I feel winded, sucker punched. A dozen thoughts collide in my head, none making it to my lips.
“You know, a date. Like dinner and a show,” he says.
A date. Goodness. He’s had a lot of practice at this. There is absolutely no fear of rejection apparent in his features.
“I don’t know, Bryce, I’m not—”
“Look, I fly out tomorrow, and I’m away a few weeks. Just think about it, and we’ll talk when I get back. Okay?”
A group of kids only a year or so older than Abby run to our booth, money in hand. We have work to do, and I’m rather relieved. Bryce is not so easily distracted. At one point he leans over and whispers, “No pressure, I swear, just consider it,” his lips lightly brushing my ear, the tingling sensation numbing the butterflies swooping in my stomach.
“I will,” I say, not so sure I should. Reasons jump to both sides of the debate.
Pretty soon the conversation is buried under layers of paint. With the lunch lull over, there’s a constant flow of customers at our table and laughter surrounds us. A mound of soiled paper towels threatens to topple the garbage can. We’ve run dry on three colors. Bryce smirks, taking in the paint splatter covering my arms and shirt. I’m not even slightly embarrassed. Paint is my friend. We belong together. Bryce seems to know this somehow.
“Why do I feel like I know you from somewhere other than here?” I say.
Bryce laughs. “You do know me. You are an old soul.”
This isn’t an unfamiliar term. “I’ve been told that before. Several times in fact.”
He’s pleased with this answer. “Do tell,” he says.
“The first time I was just a baby, so of course my mother used to tell this tale best . . . Anyway, I was a few months old and my mother was strolling through the market, cradling me against her chest so I could see the world passing by over her shoulder. She’d nicknamed me ‘the observer’ because I would sit and watch people for hours. I wasn’t shy, and seldom scared, I just liked the hustle-bustle of others. Anyway, my mom was pushing the stroller with one hand and holding me with the other when a lady, a complete stranger, rushed up and blocked the stroller, stopping my mother in her tracks. The woman was older, around Grams’s age now, and she seemed normal at first, asking my name, my age, so my mother answered her questions, turning me so the woman could see my face. That’s when the lady went nuts. She looked into my eyes and started yelling in some foreign language, trying to take me from my mother’s arms, and my mom freaked, backing away, hoping the lady would get the hint and leave us alone. But the woman followed, screaming, telling my mother I was an old soul, that I knew things. She said she could see me, see that I had been here before, several times. She kept repeating ‘old soul’ over and over until my mother was on the verge of tears and security came to cart the woman away.”
I expect Bryce to laugh but he only stares at me, obviously lost in thought.
“Crazy, huh?” I mumble.
“And the other times? You mentioned several,” he says.
“The other times weren’t nearly as entertaining.” I chuckle. “That’s my only good story. The rest were strangers claiming they knew me from another life. A few called me an old soul.” Childhood scenes flash before me. “I’ve met a few freaks. You know, people teasing a kid, trying to scare me. Once, when I was at a party, this girl a grade or two higher than me grabbed my hands, following invisible lines up my arms. I’d had a bit too much to drink and couldn’t pull away. She kept saying I was an ‘ancient one,’ and that I knew things. It was disturbing but avoiding her turned out to be easy. She left the party a few minutes later.”
“And you think these people were crazy?”
The line between sanity and insanity can be thin, but I know what crazy looks like.
“I think they believed what they were saying, which made them slightly off. Come on, what’s that supposed to mean . . . an ancient one?”
“The concept is a lot to swallow,” says Bryce, his tone strange.
A recurrent nightmare from my youth comes to mind, the shimmering man, stalking me, always whispering, it’s a lot to swallow.
“My husband used to say I attract the loonies. They flock to me like I’m some sort of nut magnet.” I look away. I hated when Meyer said that. I could say it, sure, but not him, not someone who had no idea what it’s like to watch someone you love struggle with mental illness.
Bryce still appears adrift in his thoughts.
Another four kids come to our table, swallowing me in the chaos, and as I help a little girl hold a paintbrush with her tiny fingers, my hair falls into the paint.
Bryce chuckles. “You have almost as much paint in your hair as you do on your hands.”
I pull my sleeve back with my teeth, revealing the purple hair-band beside my watch. “Would you mind?”
Bryce slides the elastic over my hand, avoiding contact with the paint, then moves to stand behind me. I can feel his breath on my neck. He gathers my hair in his hands, gently catching strands with his fingers, easing through dried clumps. His weight shifts forward. My scalp tingles, and his body heat radiates through his shirt, warming my skin. My heart accelerates, and for a moment I feel like I’m floating, like my limbs have lost all substance.
Oh my.
Bryce takes his time, his supple fingers caressing my neck, lingering on the sensitive spot behind my ears. With delicate movements he twists the elastic, dispersing the scent of raspberry shampoo into the air around us. The heat of his breath causes my eyelids to sink, my lips to part, and a gush of air to escape my lungs.
This feels . . . this feels . . .
I slowly open my eyes, and for a split second I’m rushed by guilt.
It’s Thomas. He’s standing barely twenty feet away. He isn’t looking at me but over my shoulder, at Bryce.
And if looks could kill . . .
Batter Up
November 21st
Accounts of a great people, an entire civilization obliterated by epic catastrophe, have been passed through generations for over 8000 years, in almost every language, in every culture. In comparison, Christianity is approximately 1000-1500 years old, and is practiced by 33% of the world’s population.
Forgotten History Magazine: Archeological Finds Baffle Scientists
Today, Saturday November 21st, is officially marked on my calendar. So, after lunch, Abby and I head over to
Saint Ann’s Cathedral for the Christmas pageant meeting.
Abby is thrilled to be here, doing a church play, and I can’t believe I agreed to this. My mother would spit on her own grave to see me in a church. Her mother died giving birth to her, and her father was a minister, or priest, or some sort of religious big shot, a man who apparently took every opportunity to tell his daughter he wished it had been her the Good Lord took. My mother didn’t mention her father much, only to say he was a son-of-a-bitch with a fucking foul mouth and a fucking short temper and didn’t deserve to meet his granddaughter, ever. I’ve never thought to look for him. My mother was many things, including a liar, but the only time I ever heard her swear was when she spoke of that man.
We slip into a timeworn pew, Thomas relocating so Abby and Sofia can sit together.
“I thought you might not show,” he says, “and I’d have to kill you.”
Thomas wants to be here as much as I do, for reasons he wouldn’t relinquish, and I admit I twisted his arm. The things we do for our kids.
A stout woman shaped like a pear stands before the group wielding a tea cart weighted with stacks of papers and books. I highly doubt these books contain what I’ve been looking for. When I couldn’t find Atlantis or Lemuria references in my literary arsenal, I spent hours scouring the library. Although Atlantean myths abound, there was very little regarding Lemurian culture. This only has me more intrigued. I’d like to say I’m searching only to satisfy a curiosity, but the honest woman in me knows it has a bit to do with Bryce.
Something about him has me agitated, yet fascinated, and explicit thoughts, definitely unwidow-like, have forced me to consider my feelings for him. Date, he wants to date. Me. Am I ready for that, for dinner out with a man? I suppose it’s just dinner, no big deal. Or is it? Am I ever going to be ready to move on from Meyer? And what about Thomas? I’d never considered us anything more than friends, but what do I make of that look at the fair? That was pure jealousy.
