by Dee Willson
A dead man, thinks Thomas.
Mr. Morgan struggles to keep his expression passive. He’s seen his share of atrocities, once he even saw a guy on fire, but this is something altogether different. This is personal. Anger attempts to rise to the surface, held back by nothing more than sheer will. Still, he doesn’t utter a word.
“The doctor,” says Stephen, hoping to offer a distraction, “the doctor will be back soon.”
Grams nervously fiddles with the blankets. Every few seconds she steals a glance at Tess’s wounds. She swallows hard and closes her eyes. Leaning on Stephen, she wraps her arms around his waist, lowering her forehead to his chest. Stephen looks awkward, but he rests his chin on her head, a moment so touching I feel like an intruder just being in the room.
Minutes pass before Mrs. Morgan stands and turns to me. “Bryce,” she says in greeting. Her smile takes effort, but its authenticity shows in her eyes.
I nod. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thomas,” she says, “we appreciate you both being here. Tess will need all the love and support she can muster.” Her hands hover over Tess’s taut skin, afraid to touch. She covers her nose and mouth, appalled by the foul odor.
I’ve become desensitized.
For the first time I notice the bandages are mostly white with only small traces of blood dotted here and there. The swelling has gone down and the dark blotches have taken on a yellowish hue.
The doctor steps into the room followed by a new nurse. Martine’s shift must be over. He pauses to scan faces. “Full house,” he says, reaching for Tess’s chart. After skimming notes he looks at Tess’s in-laws crowding the top half of the bed and introduces himself. “I trust you had a safe flight from Florida?” In his head he checks points off a list of things he should say to improve his bedside manner. Last week he’d taken a seminar on the topic.
“Yes,” says Mrs. Morgan, “safe, but long. We’re just pleased to know Tess is doing better.”
Mr. Morgan clears his throat. “She is, right? She’s doing better?” For the first time since their arrival, he drags his eyes from the bed.
“Much,” says the doctor, grinning like a schoolboy. “She’s amazing us all.”
I can feel Thomas’s glare and his persistent nudging at my barrier, but I refuse to look in his direction. He coughs and points at the door. I ignore him.
“In fact,” says the doctor, “we’ve never seen such a response to Leudifor. She’s the talk of the doctor’s lounge.”
Apparently Stephen told the Morgan’s about the drug the doctor thought was a long shot because they don’t push for further explanation. When a loved one has been pulled from death’s door, one is just grateful.
Thomas excuses himself, his eyes piercing me as he stomps out of the room.
“Good,” says the doctor, noticing Thomas’s departure. “It’s awfully busy in here, and our patient needs her rest.” He looks to each of us but no one budges.
A few seconds pass before I make out his thoughts. Immediate family only.
“I’ll step out.”
The doctor closes the door behind me, leaving me in the hallway with Thomas.
“What the fuck did you do?” Thomas pins me to the wall.
“Killjoy.” I look from one end of the hall to the other. “Where did the cops go?”
His eyes narrow to slits. “Don’t you know? Can’t you hear them?” He watches me try. “They’re around the corner, waiting to pounce, just like I remember.”
Thomas recalls a previous run-in with the police. It was at a hospital in Spain, the first time his wife tried to commit suicide. The cops refused Thomas entry to her hospital room because he’d been involved in an altercation with his wife’s ex-husband the week before. It got out of hand and the guy was killed. Thomas swore it was an accident, that the guy didn’t die by his hands, and the authorities had the evidence to back Thomas’s story. But Thomas’s wife wouldn’t believe them. She went ballistic, blaming Thomas, and slit her wrists in the tub. The next time she attempted to end her life, she was better prepared. She made sure Thomas was out of the country. And she went straight to the morgue.
“What are you hiding?” says Thomas. “Are you gonna tell me or do I find out the hard way?”
I work the wrinkles out of my shirt, trying not to smile. “Hard for whom?”
Thomas studies me, his expression as impassive as stone. “Why do you need to call Dad?” He leans close.
“I don’t,” I lie, suddenly remembering Gertrude’s threat.
“What does Maples have to do with . . .?” He stares at the silver numbers screwed to the door. “You didn’t.” He turns toward me, face hard. “She told you!”
“I don’t know what you’re blathering about.”
Thomas grabs me by the shoulders. “Shit, Bryce. Tell me you didn’t.”
I surrender the game. We never could keep secrets from each other.
“I did.” I smile, big, showing my teeth. “And it worked.”
“Fuck!” Thomas throws his hands up, pacing on the spot. “Dad is gonna to kill you!”
“Won’t that make your day.”
“You know what this means, don’t you? Gertrude must have told you—”
I stand tall. “I don’t care.”
“You’ll never be the same, Bryce. It isn’t like bleeding from a cut or injury.”
Thomas stops to stare at me, and for the first time in a long time, I feel the love he had for me when we were kids.
“When my wife was in the hospital, when she’d cut her wrists, Gertrude told me how to infuse my blood, how to control it, manipulate the healing process.”
This I knew, this is why I thought to call Mrs. Maples. The term is bon pa, which means to recite magical formulas, or mantras, that can manipulate sound to influence energy patterns. Father was livid when he found out what Thomas had considered, what he’d almost sacrificed for his wife to survive.
Almost. He hadn’t gone through with it.
“I couldn’t,” says Thomas, obviously privy to the lack of a blockade in my mind. “The consequences were . . . Shit, Bryce, we’re Keepers. We can’t sacrifice our gifts for others. Not ever. Not for any reason.”
“I love her, Thomas.”
Thomas groans and looks away. “When the Keepers find out—and you know they will—they are going to rip you a new one. Bro, you’re in a ton of shit.”
“I know.”
Thomas slumps forward. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
Actually, I’m tired and hungry. And I feel like I’ve got cotton balls stuffed in my ears.
“Shit, Bryce.”
“I’ve lived over three thousand lifetimes, Thomas. Twenty-two of my best were spent with the soul residing in Tess.” I can’t seem to stifle the grin plastered on my face. “She was dying. Now she’s not.”
“Now she’s not,” Thomas repeats, staring at the door. “You’ve never done this before, saved her soul.”
“Maybe that’s why I’ve always lost her.”
One of the police officers wanders past, pretending not to notice us. Chocolate jelly is stuck to his chin. Thomas huffs his disapproval, watching the cop as he rounds the corner. “You might get your hearing back. That and the fatigue are probably temporary. We’ll have to test your mind later. I doubt you’ll be helping anything inhuman for a while.”
He means I won’t have the power to change into an animal, which means I won’t be counseling any lost souls who have chosen to experience life as another one of Earth’s creatures.
“Pity,” I say, “can’t say I’ll miss that talent.” I’ve lived a couple of dozen lives as something other than human, and there is a lot to be said for being top of the food chain.
The door inches open, in need of oil, and Stephen steps into the hallway.
“My sister was awake for a few minutes, but she’s burning up, so the doctor gave her something to make her sleep. He’s never seen a fever so high, but she seems t
o be handling it. He doesn’t seem worried. He thinks this new medication is some sort of wonder drug.” He smiles. “Anyway, Tess will be out for a while, so I’m heading home to spend time with Abby, maybe get some sleep.”
I nod. The fever is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do, kill infection. Tess has figured it out. She’s controlling her body heat, manipulating the cells. The smile on my face grows in increments, and Thomas rolls his eyes.
I yell out to Stephen slowly dragging himself down the hall. “Tell Abby her mother is invincible!”
“I will,” he bellows over his shoulder.
And amazing and strong and beautiful and alive.
No matter the cost.
Dawn
Thomas, suddenly the attentive sibling, insists I get some food into me. So after checking on Tess, we head two floors down to the cafeteria. The thought of eating processed food has my stomach curdling, but I need water and something with a bit of substance. Thomas stands beside me in line, his tray stacked with freeze-dried, gas-flushed, preservative-packed junk. Mother would go nuts. Not a single item looks appealing to me.
“Are you going to eat that?” I deadpan.
Thomas assures me he is, and the lady at the counter tallies his stash. “He’s paying,” Thomas says to the woman. He gestures to me then lifts his tray over the cash register and heads for the condiments counter.
Nice. He hasn’t changed in years.
I’m better looking.
I pay for the food and follow Thomas toward a quiet table in the far corner.
Four feet from the table Thomas stops. “Listen,” he says.
Instantly the tray is gone from my hands and we’re standing on the other side of the cafeteria. A flat screen television mounted to the wall blasts the news, and a small mass has gathered to watch the local anchorwoman.
“Live, from the steps of Palais PD.” The wind blows her hair as she tries to grip the microphone and keep the hem of her skirt down at the same time. “I repeat,” she says. “The Jane Doe Butcher is dead. Only moments ago, the body of Adrien Rimkin was found here—” The camera pans to steep stone steps leading to a set of glass doors covered with graffiti. “—on the steps of the old Prefecture of Police building, gunshot wound to the head.” Yellow tape marks the parameter corralling a dozen officers milling around a white tarp. “It appears that Rimkin climbed the steps, confession in hand, and shot himself, unable to live with what he’d done the night of February sixteenth, to Tess Morgan, no longer our Jane Doe.” A picture of Tess materializes in the left corner of the screen. She’s wearing the red dress she wore to Karen’s New Year’s party, but her hair is shorter.
I close my eyes, just for a second, and a nurse nudges me in the side. “She’s here, in ICU,” she whispers.
Another photo pops onto the screen and Thomas says, “That’s him, the guy from the café. That’s the guy I saw on the café’s security video.”
I look around us but no one is listening. They’re all riveted to the television.
The reporter clears her throat. “Rimkin, a twenty-six-year-old Spanish born American, has only one prior involving—oddly enough—tax evasion. According to police, Rimkin’s hand written note describes how he met Tess Morgan, less than forty-eight hours ago, at the Roissy airport. Smitten, he followed her to an apartment on Rue Nicolas Houel, where she and her daughter were visiting family. While trying to talk to her at the Jardin des Plantes, he—and I quote—lost control. Police say the note is clearly the ramblings of a deranged mind, and they are relieved to see he’s off the streets.”
Rimkin’s photo disappears and the one of Tess dominates the entire screen.
“Mrs. Morgan is now in a stable condition at Pitie-Salpetriere Hospital, where doctors believe a new drug called Leudifor saved her from what should have been fatal injuries.” The reporter comes back into view, now with the Leudifor logo scrolling across the top of the scene. “What else is this miracle drug capable of? Next, we’ll talk to the head chemist at Rideau, the makers of Leudifor.”
“Holy shit,” I say, eyes glazed over. “I didn’t see that coming.”
Thomas drags his hands slowly down his face. “Me neither. And I’m not handicapped.”
I ignore the jab and try to concentrate on the facts. The lost soul is dead. This is good. This is very good. Tess is safe. I should be relieved. Why am I not relieved? After what this guy did to Tess, I wanted him hurt, killed, obliterated. I got my wish, and without dirty hands. But this isn’t right. Lost souls don’t commit suicide. Few ever feel remorse, never mind put it to paper.
Am I’m missing something?
By the time my focus returns, the news has ended and the crowd has dispersed. I turn to speak to Thomas but beside me is nothing but space.
Over here, he says without using his voice.
I look to the table in the far corner. I’m there in a heartbeat.
“You’re eating?” I say, stunned.
Thomas shrugs, dipping fries into mayonnaise. “I’m hungry.”
I’m starving, but I can’t eat. Not now. My thoughts are jumbled as I try to decipher the puzzle. I don’t see why this guy would turn himself in, never mind commit suicide. The police had no idea who he was, and we weren’t onto him, not yet anyway. Why wouldn’t he just flee?
“Does it really matter?” says Thomas, slurring around a mouthful of food.
“Well, yeah. I’m elated he’s no longer capable of hurting Tess, but his death matters. And it means there is someone else, someone higher up the chain, someone capable of controlling a lost soul. Who killed him and why?”
Thomas has shoved too much into his mouth to speak. So the guy had enemies. I don’t really care who popped the fucker. As long as he’s gone, that’s one mighty big project off my hands.
I head to the stairs, pausing only to see what channel the news was on.
I need to see Tess. When she wakes, she’ll want to know what’s going on, and if the lost soul will return for her. She has to know he won’t come back, that the lost soul is dead. The news should calm her soul, help her sleep, allow her to heal.
And I won’t give her any reason to worry.
Not yet anyway.
Pausing outside her hospital door, the silver numbers blur as exhaustion clouds my vision. The past twenty-four hours have passed in a whirlwind. The thought of Tess’s family watching over her on the other side of this door makes me think of my family, my life, my future. I take a deep breath. I love Tess. I think she loves me, the Keeper and the man. She’s alive, she’ll heal, and I’ll give her the time she needs. I’ll give her everything. She’ll love me someday, I hope. We’ll figure it out and be together. Again.
Someone says my name, and startled, I look up to see Mrs. Morgan propping the door with a rubber stopper. She smiles. “Are you coming in?” she says.
I step into the room, and it looks different. Brighter. Tidier. It even smells better.
“How is she?” I say.
Even Tess looks different. Her hair curls around her shoulders, clean and combed. The tube taped to her mouth is gone, and not a speck of blood shows on the white gauze squares.
“She’s good.” Mrs. Morgan rests a warm hand on my arm. “She’s been asking for you.”
I rush to the bed. “I’m here.”
Tess’s eyes remain closed, but a tiny smile inches up the right ride side of her lip.
A heartfelt sigh catches my attention and I turn to see Grams leaving the room, guiding her husband’s wheelchair through the doorway. “We’re going to check on Abby,” she says. “You take care of our girl now.”
Mr. Morgan gives me a simple wave and I return the gesture. I hadn’t even noticed he was in the room.
“Oh, wait,” I say, diving after them. “There is no television in here, so you wouldn’t have seen the news. He’s dead. The man who did this, he can’t hurt her again.”
Mrs. Morgan just sighs. “The police told us before they left.” She kicks the stopper from the do
or. “We’ll be back soon.” As the door closes I catch a trace of her thoughts. She aims to find Thomas and distract him, giving me time alone with Tess.
“I really like Grams,” I murmur, carefully sitting on the side of the bed.
Tess runs air over her vocal cords, obviously happy to see me. I’m surprised to see she’s awake. Her mind is still murky, I think. Maybe it’s me, maybe I can’t see through the stuffing in my head.
“He’s gone,” I say, “really gone—the lost soul won’t return. Now you don’t need to worry, just rest.”
I don’t mention the lack of lost soul suicide statistics or the feeling I have, the sensation I’m missing something, that this was all too easy. I ignore the fact that the lost soul’s death seems more like a concluded loose end than a suicide, and how I suspect there is someone worse lurking in the shadows. Instead, I push doubt from my mind and rummage through the blankets for Tess’s hand.
I hold tight and a wave of calm falls over me.
Studying Tess’s hand, I recall all the times I’ve wanted to touch her, to hold her. All the times I’ve had to show restraint and keep my feelings at bay. My fingertips follow the lines in her palm, the many lives she’s lived. I refuse to lose her again. She’s not ready for me to love her the way I do, but we’ll take things slow.
“Your ring.”
The gold wedding band she wears is missing. It’s the first time I’ve noticed. I reach for the drawer beside her bed, assuming her personal belongings are tucked inside. There is a bag, the contents obviously Tess’s. The glass face of her watch is shattered, a silver key tainted with blood. Her ring slides along the bottom of the bag, beside a pen and folded sheet of paper.
“This belongs here.” I slide the gold band onto her finger. It only fits halfway, but Tess attempts to close her hand around mine.
I can see the paper through the plastic, the blue ink in Tess’s handwriting.
Dear Bryce, it says. I should have stayed. I wanted to stay. I’m sorry I didn’t call before leaving for Paris, but I knew if I heard your voice I’d change my mind. What you said to me, how you feel, I feel the same. But I need time. Abby needs time.
