A Keeper's Truth

by Dee Willson

  I spread Abby’s OshKosh blanket across her lap then grope my pockets for keys. Shit, I’ve left my purse in the church. I catch Karen chatting two cars over, her hair glowing under a parking lamp. She agrees to watch Abby while I run back for my purse, rolling her eyes dramatically when I remind her—more than once—not to leave Abby alone.

  Two feet from the stage door I wonder why I hadn’t grabbed my coat. I’m freezing.

  The lights are out and the stage is deserted. I’m fumbling through the shadows, feeling for my purse, when a deep voice rings through the darkness, halting me. Thomas? Is that Thomas? It can’t be.

  Now there’s a second voice, deeper still. I root to the floor, not wanting to disturb what is obviously a private conversation. The sound of shoes scuffing hardwood only a few feet away has instinct dropping me into a crouch. Pine floor cleaner burns my nose. I rummage through thick velvet. Where is my purse?

  The voices move closer, becoming clear.

  “We shouldn’t have this conversation here. Come to my place. We’ll talk.”

  Shit. That’s Bryce.

  “There isn’t anything to say. Just go away,” says Thomas.

  My eyes pierce the blackness, confused. I’ve never heard Thomas so angry. What the hell are they fighting about? They barely know each other.

  “Thomas—”

  “Go away. Leave. Go back to France or London or wherever you were last.”

  I cover my ears, not wanting to hear this Thomas.

  “You haven’t told her anything,” says Bryce, his voice lucid.

  “Christ, she just lost her husband.”

  Husband? My hands drop to my knees.

  “You’re supposed to teach her, help her. You’re a—”

  “The one that wasn’t meant to be.” Sarcasm drips from Thomas’s every word.

  “That’s not true. How can you say that?” They pace the floor, moving farther away. I can barely hear. “You have to help her before someone finds her, before it’s too late.”

  “She should be left alone.”

  “Thomas—”

  “I’ll protect her.”

  Bryce sighs. “She needs to learn how to protect herself.”

  “You’re the one throwing parties and introducing her to your freak show.”

  “I didn’t know at the time. I had a hunch, but I wasn’t sure. And I would never put her in danger.”

  “No?”

  “If you were so worried about her, why didn’t you come?”

  “I want a normal life,” says Thomas, pausing. “That would exclude you and your friends. Go away. Leave her with me.”

  “She doesn’t love you.”

  “Think she loves you?” Thomas sounds venomous.

  “We’ve been together before. She’s the one. I can feel it.”

  “Bullshit! You’ve never believed in that love at first—”

  “It’s not like that,” says Bryce.

  “She’s mine.”

  Excuse me? Who does Thomas think he is? My mind spins in confusion.

  Bryce sucks in a mouthful of air, whistling. “Thomas, you know you can’t control an old soul, you can only guide and—”

  “You arrogant fuck. Don’t you dare throw her in my face. I wanted a son.”

  Her? Her who? Is Thomas talking about his ex-wife?

  “I know, we all do, but it doesn’t work that way and you know—”

  “But only one of us can, and it’s going to be me. I want it more than you. I don’t know what happened but I’m telling you she loved me.”

  Bryce sighs. “I’m sure she did. Still, you shouldn’t have pursued her. And you should’ve told her the truth before you got her pregnant.”

  “If it wasn’t for him, she would’ve come around.”

  “She had her ovaries butchered, Thomas. Not everyone can handle being taught in this century, and you were aware of the ramifications. Even when she left you to go back to him, you couldn’t leave her alone.”

  “She loved me,” Thomas repeats.

  “Love isn’t enough.”

  “Fuck. Sometimes I hate you.” Clothing ruffles. “You’re taking Tess from me as punishment?”

  Taking me?

  “I would never take anything from you, Thomas. She’s not yours to take. She makes her own choices.”

  Damn right I do.

  Thomas steps forward, his features highlighted by a faint ray of light. His eyes look chafed, both literally and figuratively. His body stands rigid, his shoulders back and defiant, his visible hand locked into a fist of contempt. “We’ll make it work,” he says. “She’ll love me and I’ll have my family.”

  “You already have a family,” says Bryce.

  “I don’t want you here. Go.”

  Huh?

  Bryce starts to speak then stops. “I’m not leaving you. And I won’t leave her now that I’ve found her, Thomas.”

  Thomas lowers his voice to a lethal whisper, “She is not yours.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you—”

  “You don’t give a rat’s ass—”

  “Of course I do, how can you say that? You’re my brother.”

  Brother? They’re brothers? No fucking way!

  “Don’t call me—”

  “Brothers!” I sputter, launching into the dim light.

  Thomas’s body tenses, his startled eyes locked on my face, and Bryce, now vaguely discernable, has one hand wrapped around the back of his neck. My eyes drill them, moving from one to the other. “You’re brothers?” I gape at Thomas. “You . . . you lied to me. You told me your brother lives in France.”

  “He did,” Thomas says, inching toward me, reaching.

  I step back. “You lied to me.”

  Bryce paces forward. “Tess, I’m—”

  “And you!” I verbally lash out. I don’t know what to say so I throw daggers with my eyes, pursing my lips in frustration. I can’t believe this, brothers fighting about . . . what exactly? The room starts to spin and every ounce of my being needs to get the hell out. I cradle my head, shock and fury pounding my skull. I need my keys.

  I turn abruptly, intent on one thing and one thing only. Now that I’m out of the shadows I can see the plush navy curtains gathered in the corner, the prize sitting right where I left it. With two long strides, I seize my purse and open the stage door, slamming it behind me without another word.

  My mind is thick and dazed. I want to be home, to be swallowed by the comforts of familiar walls. I stomp my way through the church parking lot and mumble a curt thanks to Karen as I slither behind the steering wheel.

  Rage slams the door and I take off, escaping on my Magic Carpet.

  Men

  Mid-December

  In Earth’s history, entire continents and countless islands have been swallowed by the sea, the earth, and covered with volcanic sediment. Our planet is in constant flux, an ever-changing cycle of water level, temperature, and the resulting natural disasters. The sudden extinction of mammals and plants worldwide is proof that Earth’s surface changes rapidly, violently. Add the vast array of pyramids and stone monuments built beyond current knowledge and you’ve set the stage for a lost advanced civilization, a possible Atlantis.

  Forgotten History Magazine: Archeological Finds Baffle Scientists

  “Tess, I need to talk to you. I know you’re pissed, and you have every right to be, but please talk to me. Call me back. Please.”

  Beep.

  “It’s me again, Thomas. You’re obviously still mad. I messed up and I’m sorry. Please call me. I need you to forgive me.”

  Beep.

  “Tess, I’m going crazy not talking to you. Please call me back so we can work this out.”

  Beep.

  “Hello, honey. This heat wave is making Ted irritable, so we’re coming home a little earlier than planned. I’ll call when we get in. See you soon. Give Abby hugs for us.”

  Ping.

  Text message: Tess, if you don’t return my calls, I’m c
oming over there. Call me, please. Please.

  Ping.

  Text message: Karen here. I’ve got something for you and we need to talk. Anyway, call me as soon as you get this message.

  I’ve been avoiding the phone for days. It’s childish and obnoxiously rude, but I haven’t been in the mood to speak to anyone, so I’ve let it ring. I’ve been busy with Abby. Well, Abby’s been the perfect distraction. We’ve plastered the house with Christmas decor, played in the yard, baked banana bread, poured over our favorite books, and bumped our way through the grocery store, twice. No time to brood.

  Abby’s been asleep for hours, so at peace I can’t bring myself to carry her from the couch. I’m stretched across the floor, comfortably propped, a tower of assorted pillows bearing my weight. The fire has my feet toasty. It’s late and all the house lights are off. Every once in a while lightning flashes, throwing the steady flicker of the tree lights out of sync.

  I’m two hundred pages into the book I ordered, a book about lost civilizations. It arrived this afternoon along with the storm, and I’ve been reading by candlelight—bad for the eyes but great for the soul. I think Edgar Cayce would agree. He’s the famous prophet who, in the late 1800s and early 1900s, proffered medical cures while in a trance-like state. An entire chapter is dedicated to his fascinating romps into the psyches of thousands; most tracing back to previous lives in Atlantis. He believed the sins of Atlanteans lead to bad behavior that carried over into subsequent reincarnations, affecting their soul’s development through many lifetimes. In other words, Cayce’s patients were paying in this life for their soul’s previous misdeeds.

  I flip back a couple of pages, trying to find the last sentence that actually stuck. Fatigue has my concentration by the balls. Or maybe it’s the lights on the Christmas tree, blinking snippets of my life. Like the battery-operated ballerina ornament. As her lavender tutu spins, a distant memory whirls.

  I’m standing outside the Princess of Wales Theater, downtown Toronto. It’s a remarkable evening. Snow drifts from the night sky on slow-moving waves. Trees, cars, buildings, everything is coated in a thick blanket of ice. Meyer slides his fingers under my thick parka, skimming my taut belly, the sensation provoking internal feet and hands to flutter. I smile and a smug grin illuminates Meyer’s face. I take one last look at his gift, a precious ballerina ornament holding show tickets. It’s Christmas Eve and the Nutcracker is a delightful surprise.

  Wind blows down the chimney, a plume of smoke as witness. I turn to Abby asleep on the couch and gently pluck stray strands from her flushed cheeks. Not a trace of Meyer lies within her features. Other than reckless curls of red, she’s a mini me, my mother incarnate.

  I look back at the Christmas tree, memories flooding my senses. The tiny hockey jersey was bought to commemorate the day we brought Abby home from the hospital wrapped in Meyer’s jersey, and he introduced Abby to Gramps as “the enforcer” because her nose was slightly off center, her face bruised. The pink teddy bear makes me think of Abby’s first birthday, and how we found Meyer asleep on the floor beside a big girl bed with pink teddy bear sheets and quilts, none present the night before. I remember Taxi, Meyer’s old golden retriever, and the Christmas we spent in Paris with Stephen. I recall the first time Meyer and I made love under a Christmas tree, our tree, decorated just like this one.

  Now, enthralled with ornaments commemorating our life, I see Meyer more clearly than I have in months. My handsome, loving Meyer . . .

  I close my eyes, resting my head on a cushion. I search my mind for a vision, one that will allow me to feel his caress, the strength of his embrace, warmth of his lips. I’m granted the view but the sense of touch hovers beyond my reach, and frustrated by the bombardment of emotions, tears drip from my chin.

  Ring, ring, ring.

  I hear the telephone but ignore it.

  Ring, ring, ring.

  I rub tiny circles over my temples, striving to divert my attention back to the lights.

  Ring, ring, ring.

  I grab the damn phone.

  “What?”

  “Tess? Did I wake you? It’s Karen.”

  I try very hard to remove the edge from my voice. “I was . . . just thinking.”

  “Sorry to phone so late but you didn’t call me back, and when I drove past your house, I could see your tree lights on.” Karen’s house is just past mine on the main road into town. Three-quarters of the year our small house can’t be seen from the road, but winter spurs leafless trees, allowing for a better view of my home and, apparently, my living room. “Are you all right?” she asks. Her voice sounds hollow and I wonder if she’s still in her car.

  I take short steps in time with the intermittent lights, aiming for the living room blinds. A chill creeps through my spine, my sixth sense suddenly on edge. I feel watched, on display. I almost drop the phone.

  “You don’t need to worry about me,” I say, peeking out the window.

  The sky is dark, almost black, the clouds so low they cut the tops off trees. The rain is not just falling it’s jetting a path of destruction, pelting the few leaves that managed to hold onto trees and bushes, leaving everything bare, wet, and gloomy. The sight is depressing. Christmas is meant to be bright white.

  I shut the blinds.

  “Bryce thinks there’s reason to worry. He called yesterday, suggesting I check on you. He wouldn’t tell me why, just that you might be upset and need a friend. You sure you’re okay?”

  I swallow a massive amount of air. My need for a confidant swims against a current of self-preservation.

  Ah, hell, Karen will find out anyway.

  “They’re brothers, Karen.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Thomas and Bryce, they’re brothers. And Thomas lied to me about it.”

  “No way,” she gasps. “Shit. That’s complicated.”

  The line falls silent.

  For days, I haven’t sacrificed more than a scattered minute or two to reflect upon Thomas or Bryce. But now, presented with a suitable sounding board, I have no control over the path my mind opts to wander. I’m furious with Thomas. Not only did he lie to me about where his brother lived, but he had several opportunities to mention Bryce was his brother and didn’t. For heaven’s sake, Bryce is Sofia’s uncle! Where did all this loathing come from? And where does Thomas get off claiming me like he has the right? One brief encounter and a developing friendship does not mean I am his. This is a side of Thomas I’ve never seen before. A side I never want to see again.

  Karen snorts, startling me. “That explains a lot,” she says.

  “Explains what, exactly?”

  “It sheds light on the tension between those two. Siblings can be pretty competitive. It also explains why Bryce stormed from the church looking like he’d been hurt.”

  I recall Bryce’s expression when I caught them arguing, how sad and torn he looked. His words roll in my mind, twisted, blurred, not making any sense.

  “That night, when I ran back for my purse, Thomas and Bryce were backstage, arguing. I tried to get the hell out of there, but I didn’t move fast enough, and I overheard them talking. The fight was heated, Thomas especially. I’ve never seen him so irate. I didn’t catch all that was said, and what I did hear I don’t quite understand, but I’m sure of one thing, the two are brothers.”

  At odds with her trigger-happy personality, Karen remains silent. When she finally decides to broadcast her notions, her voice is riddled with concern. “Thomas left the church with his daughter Sofia in tow. The kid was crying. When they passed me in the parking lot I asked Thomas if he was joining us at the bistro. He said he wasn’t going, that he had to get Sofia home. Minutes later, Bryce exited the church and while heading for his car I saw his face under a light. He looked like someone had clocked him.”

  “Literally?” My chin collides with the phone. “Hurt, as in beaten?”

  I can’t believe it. Thomas wouldn’t actually deck Bryce, would he?

  “He had a
shiner and a bloody nose. I only caught a glimpse, but he didn’t look great. At the time I’d figured he’d fallen or banged into something.”

  “And Thomas, did he look battered? I hope Bryce gave as much as he got.”

  “Not at all. That’s why it never occurred to me that the two of them might have been fighting. That and the fact that I didn’t think they knew each other. Thomas looked slightly concerned, stressed maybe, but that’s it.”

  “Why didn’t you stop Bryce? Maybe he needed help.”

  “The man shot out of there like a bullet.” Karen pauses for a moment, catching her breath. Thunder rumbles in the background. She sounds distracted, like she’s trying to talk and drive at the same time. “Now I understand why Thomas left with Sofia and Bryce followed after. Who wants a kid to know they’ve been clocked by their own brother, the kid’s father to boot. It also explains why Bryce took off.”

  “What do you mean by ‘took off’?”

  “Bryce called yesterday—like I said, he was concerned about you. He called from France. He’d grabbed a flight to spend a few days with his parents. Apparently he does this often. His family is really tight.”

  Not his entire family.

  I can’t help but think of Thomas, about the conversation we had the night of our dinner date, of all the things he said about his brother, the jerk.

  Karen huffs. “It was a short conversation, and I didn’t get the chance to ask questions. He probably doesn’t want his niece to know what happened and a black eye is hard to hide. Especially in Carlisle, where people talk.”

  “Karen, seriously, you can’t—”

  “Relax, Chickpea, I’ll keep everyone’s privacy on this one.” A car door slams. “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know. I’ve been avoiding Thomas.”

  Thomas lied to me, big time. I thought he’d opened up, let me within his walls, given me a glimpse of the man inside, but there was no truth to it. What else has been a lie?

  “I have nothing nice to say to Thomas, especially now.”

  “And Bryce?”

  “I’ve had it with men. I’m barring the whole lot.”