My Soul to Keep

by Melanie Wells

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “John, you’re lying.”

  The fist hit the table again.

  “One more time, and you’re back in isolation,” the guard said quietly.

  I looked up at the guard and shook my head. “It’s okay.”

  “I’m not lying,” John said quietly.

  “I talked to Molly Larken, John.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Molly Larken. The student you mentioned in your blog.”

  “I never heard of her.”

  My eyes narrowed.

  “Red hair? Looks a lot like me?”

  He met my eyes again. How many times in one conversation? Surely a record.

  “I never heard of her.”

  “In the blog, you called her your muse.”

  His face twisted in anger. “Does that sound like something I would say?”

  I stopped and thought about it. Bless my soul, it didn’t.

  “I don’t have a computer,” he said.

  “Someone from outside the prison would have to be maintaining it.”

  “I don’t know anyone.”

  “And you don’t know Molly Larken?”

  He looked up again. “I don’t know any students.”

  Now, that had to be true. John had never bothered to learn his students’ names. Even in his labs, when he might have had only a few students for an entire semester, he just didn’t care enough about them to bother.

  “What else does it say?” he mumbled.

  “That you’re innocent.”

  He glanced at the guard. “Maybe I am.”

  “John, I was there when—”

  The fist slammed on the table again. More blood began to show on his wrist.

  “That’s it,” the guard said. He took out the cuffs.

  “Could you just give us another minute?” I asked. “I think I can handle it.”

  He looked at John, then back at me. He stepped back and pointed at John. “You watch it.”

  I took a deep breath. “Will you take some medication if I can get your doctor to prescribe it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “What’s the point?”

  “John, you can’t live like this. Do you see yourself? You’re falling apart.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Look, I know it seems hopeless.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like,” he said quietly.

  I sat back in my chair. “I don’t, do I?”

  He shook his head.

  I stood up. “I’m going to talk to him anyway. I wish you’d consider taking something. I think it would help. You deserve to feel better than this.”

  “You don’t know what I deserve,” he said, his teeth clenched. The hatred in his voice stunned me.

  His blue eyes were watery. “Don’t come back.”

  I took a step backward, the power of his anger pushing me toward the wall.

  I held up my hands. “Okay. If that’s what you want, I won’t come back.”

  “Good.”

  He hung his head while the guard cuffed him and led him to the door.

  “Bye, John. Take care of yourself. I’ll talk to the doctor for you.” I held up my notebook. “And your lawyer. ASAP.”

  John glared at me again.

  I took a step away from him.

  He turned his back to me and shuffled out of the room without looking back.

  29

  BY THE TIME I got back to my house, Liz and Christine were parked in front, waiting for me. I greeted them with a ridiculous level of enthusiasm. I was so glad to see Christine back out in the world again.

  “How ya feeling, Punkin?” I asked, leaning down to her eye level.

  She shrugged unenthusiastically. “Pretty good.”

  “You ready to see Eeyore?”

  Her face broke into a wide smile. “Did he miss me?”

  “He missed you tons. Let’s go see what he has to say.”

  I could tell something was wrong as soon as I unlocked the door. The house just felt lifeless to me.

  As we stepped inside, Liz cocked her head. “What’s that sound?”

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “It’s in the kitchen.”

  As we walked down the hall, I heard it too. A high, steady beep.

  I turned around. “It’s the carbon monoxide alarm. Get Christine out of the house.”

  Liz turned and hustled her back out to the front yard. I ran around the house throwing open doors and windows, pulled the monitor out of the socket, grabbed some batteries, and went out to the yard.

  “Sometimes it goes off because the batteries are dead,” I said to Liz. “If it goes off again after I change them, we’ll know it’s real.”

  “What do we do then?”

  I shrugged. “Call 911?”

  “But what about Eeyore and Melissa?” Christine whined.

  I handed Liz the batteries and the carbon monoxide unit. “I’ll go get them. I bet they can’t wait to see you.”

  I opened the bedroom windows first, then walked over to the rabbit hutches, expecting the usual nose-twitch, ear-flap greeting. Both rabbits were lying on their sides, mouths open, ears flat. They weren’t breathing.

  I grabbed them up and ran to the front yard.

  “Call 911,” I said to Liz.

  She sized up my cargo. “For the rabbits?”

  “No, for the house. Tell them our rabbits died. It’s a real leak.”

  “No!” Christine shrieked, grabbing for Eeyore. “Save them!”

  She pried him out of my hands and knelt, laying him gently on the grass, then took Melissa and laid her carefully beside him.

  She stood up and stared at me. “Save them,” she said again.

  “I don’t know how,” I said. “Punkin, it’s too late.”

  “You saved me. Mommy told me.”

  “But you’re a little girl. They’re rabbits. It’s not the same.”

  “Miss Dylan, you have to save them!” she shrieked. Tears began to puddle in her eyes.

  “Punkin, I don’t know how to resuscitate a rabbit. They didn’t teach us that in CPR.”

  “Pleeeease, Miss Dylan? Pleeeease?” She was jumping up and down, tears streaming down her cheeks, nearing hysterics.

  I looked helplessly at Liz, who was talking on her cell phone to the 911 operator.

  “Okay.” I knelt beside the bunnies and grabbed Christine’s hands. “Here’s what you do.” I showed her how to compress their chests gently. “Not too hard. They have tiny little ribs. Like chicken bones. Just do it real soft. I’ll be right back.”

  I took a gulp of air, held my breath, and dashed into the kitchen, yanking open a drawer and grabbing some soda straws. Back in the yard, I knelt next to the rabbits. I did Eeyore first, tipping his head back, slipping the straw into his throat, closing my hand around his mouth and nose. I leaned over and blew gently. Liz hung up the phone, grabbed the other straw, and started in on Melissa. I talked her through inserting the straw. She got the straw in and began blowing air gently into Melissa’s little bunny lungs.

  “On my count,” I said. “Christine, stop pressing for a second.” Liz and I blew into the straws. “Okay—now press down.” I counted for her. “Liz, two more breaths.”

  We went through three cycles of compressions and breaths.

  Eeyore started to kick. I looked at Liz, my eyes wide.

  I gave him two more breaths, then pulled the straw out. Eeyore’s ears pricked up, and he struggled to his feet.

  “Is Melissa’s chest rising when you breathe?” I asked Liz.

  She nodded. “Her nose is getting pink.”

  They went through another full cycle before Melissa started to twitch. A few seconds later, she righted herself and balled up, ears back, fur puffed out, breathing heavily.

  Christine began clapping wildly and hopping around the yard like a bunny.

  We could h
ear the fire engine’s siren wailing in the distance.

  Liz looked at me. “Unbelievable.”

  “Ridiculous,” I said. “I felt absolutely ridiculous. And look at them. I can’t believe it worked.”

  “I’m glad you weren’t sleeping when this happened,” she said.

  I swallowed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “There wouldn’t have been anyone here to stick a straw down your throat.”

  We stared at each other, letting the thought sink in. “Do you think this could have caused Christine’s first attack?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Let’s ask the firemen.”

  The fire engine screamed to a halt in front of my house. My neighbors were pushing back curtains and stepping into their yards.

  Firemen began jumping off the truck.

  “Resident?” one said to me.

  I looked up into a pair of liquid blue eyes.

  “Me,” I said, raising my hand like a schoolgirl. “I live here.”

  “Name?”

  “Dylan Foster.”

  I held out my hand. He winked and shook his head, holding up his hand, which was sheathed in an enormous yellow glove.

  Liz and I stayed in the yard with Christine and the bunnies as the firemen streamed into my house.

  “Okay, so he’s cute,” Liz said, watching my face.

  “So cute! Who knew disaster was a great way to meet men? I should have had a carbon monoxide leak years ago.”

  “No!” Christine said. “He’s not your boyfriend, Miss Dylan. Mr. David is.”

  “I’m not sure Mr. David wants to be my boyfriend,” I said.

  “Did you make him the snickerdoodles yet?”

  “Not yet, Punkin.”

  The cute fireman came out and pulled off his glove. “You’ve got a leak. We had to turn the gas off.”

  “Oh. What do I do now? Who fixes that?”

  “I have a number you can call.”

  He hopped into the cab of the truck and came back with a business card. “TXU Gas comes twenty-four hours a day for emergencies.”

  “Is this an emergency?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Congratulations,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “They should be out tonight to fix it. Sometimes they get backed up.” He pointed at the bunnies. “Dispatch said the rabbits died.”

  “She brought them back to life,” Christine said. “We saved them.”

  He tipped his fireman hat. “Good work. How’d you do the breathing?”

  “Soda straw.”

  He nodded. “Good thinking. You must have caught them right after they went under. They wouldn’t have lasted long.”

  We asked him about the leak, whether it could have caused Christine’s problem.

  “I doubt it. If it was that bad, it should have gotten everyone in the room. Carbon monoxide is an equal-opportunity killer. It loves everybody.”

  “Mr. David loves Miss Dylan,” Christine said in a sing-songy voice.

  “Christine! Hush!” Liz said. She grabbed Christine by the hand and pulled her away.

  “He’s her boyfriend!” Christine shouted as her mother dragged her across the yard.

  The fireman looked at me and shrugged. “Bad luck for me.”

  I smiled, embarrassed.

  “We’re sort of broken up.”

  “Sort of?”

  “The jury’s still out.”

  “His or yours?”

  “His.”

  He took the card from me, fished underneath his jacket, and pulled a pen out of the pocket of his shirt.

  “If he convicts, give me a call.” He wrote down his name and number and handed me the card.

  “Buck Bradley,” I read out loud. “That sounds like a rodeo name. Or a movie star. Or an astronaut.”

  “Nope. Just a fireman.” He tipped his hat again. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Foster.”

  “Do you always hit on the women whose houses you get called to?”

  Another dazzling smile. “Only the ones who know how to bring a rabbit back to life.”

  The firemen let Liz and Christine climb up with them so Christine could blow the siren, which sent her into spasms of delight. I sat on the curb by myself, watching the scene, twirling the card between my fingers.

  I stared at it for a moment, trying to imagine myself with Buck Bradley of Dallas Fire-and-Rescue. Then I tore the card up and tucked the pieces into my pocket.

  30

  WE DECIDED THAT LIZ and Christine would smuggle the rabbits into their hotel room in Liz’s duffle bag. Someone needed to keep an eye on them, and after their recent ordeal, I thought it only fair to let them enjoy their recovery in a snake- and carbon-monoxide-free environment. Plus, Liz needed a night of room service and Frette linens after almost a week of sleeping in the Lysol chair.

  That left me alone at my house—just me and Peter Terry—waiting for TXU gas to come find my leak and turn the gas back on. I walked through the living room, my temper rising.

  “You’re losing your touch,” I said out loud.

  The sound of my breathing seemed to fill up the kitchen, which had fallen eerily silent. The air was still and warm. There was no knocking from the water heater—no gas, of course. The clock on the wall, which normally hums as the red hand counts off the seconds, had stopped.

  The kitchen drawer protested loudly as I yanked it open and fished around for a screwdriver, which I used to pull the back off the clock.

  “You’ve stooped to killing rabbits? Where were you in the eighties? Didn’t you see Fatal Attraction? Come up with something original.”

  I popped the batteries out and pulled another AA Duracell from the pack, slipping it in and flipping the clock over to verify that the second hand had begun to move. I checked my watch and set the time: 9:37.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re accomplishing. You’re not scaring me anymore.” I hung the clock back on its hook. “I’m onto you. You know that? You’re nothing but a stalker. A coward.”

  My shoulders ached. I reached into the cabinet for aspirin and opened the fridge for a cold bottle of water.

  “Hiding in the shadows, breaking light bulbs, and summoning flies and rats and snakes like a petty vandal. No one cares. Do you hear me? No one cares about any of this. Least of all me. I’ll just keep swatting the flies and trapping the rats and the snakes.”

  The water was so cold it hurt my teeth. The aspirin caught in my throat. Another swig, tossing my head back, and a hard swallow before they yielded and slid down my throat.

  “You’re a fraud. A pretender. And I’m telling you, you are fighting a losing battle. Everyone seems to understand that but you.”

  The clock stopped again.

  I stalked over, pulled it off the wall, and popped the back off.

  “You keep at it. I got plenty of batteries. You should know by now I’m well supplied.”

  A fresh AA, and the hands started to move again. I replaced the back and hung the clock back up on the wall, straightening it carefully.

  “Only a coward kidnaps children,” I said to the silence. “You know that? Someone who can’t handle a fair fight—that’s who kidnaps kids. Losers like you who have to overpower someone small and weak in order to feel important. To feel like they have some power in the universe.”

  I rolled my shoulders and shut my eyes, my hair falling back on my shoulders.

  “I will absolutely make it my mission in life to get him back. I will not stop until you are whining and crying and begging for mercy. Angels will come and strangle you slowly.”

  I looked around the room, daring him to appear. “What do you want? Ransom? What are you holding out for? Why don’t you just give up now? You know we’re going to get him back.”

  I threw the rest of the new batteries into the drawer and slammed it shut.

  “We both know how this is going to come out in the end. My dad can beat up your dad.” />
  Silence. I knew he was listening. I didn’t really care to hear his response.

  I finished my water and reached into the fridge for another bottle, then snapped off the light in the kitchen, glancing for the first time at the answering machine. I groaned. That blasted light was blinking again.

  I considered ignoring it but caved to the guilt and punched Play, scrolling through a few messages from my father, one from my brother, and one from Helene, who wanted to congratulate me on my absolution. The last message was from Molly Larken, wanting to talk to me tonight. She didn’t leave a number.

  Ten o’clock is the boundary between evening and night for most people, the moment after which it becomes rude to call. My watch said 9:52. I decided to go for it. Another search through my bag—cursing that I hadn’t taken the half minute required to put her number into my phone.

  There were maybe a dozen slips of paper bunched up in the bottom of my purse. I pulled them all out and searched through them, looking for the card she’d given me. I got halfway through the pile before I stopped cold, staring dumbly at the card in my hand. On it were an ankh and a phone number. Nothing else. I vaguely recognized the area code.

  I flipped the card over and sure enough, there was Molly’s phone number in her handwriting. This was the card she’d given me.

  Molly picked up on the first ring.

  “Did you see the blog?” she asked.

  “When? Today?”

  “He posted a poem this morning. It’s all about how he can’t wait to get out and get back to teaching so he can be with me again. He actually used the phrase ‘molding young hearts and minds.’ Listen …”

  I heard her tapping computer keys. “Wait, I’m scrolling down … Here it is. ‘I miss molding young hearts and minds, helping them to a future in time.’ ”

  I groaned. “That’s awful.”

  “Let’s see. What else is on here? He mentions an article from today’s paper. About DNA exoneration. Claiming it will prove his innocence. ‘Beyond a shadow of a doubt.’ That’s not the phrase, is it? It’s ‘beyond a reasonable doubt,’ right? Is he an idiot or what?”

  “He didn’t write that.”

  “What do you mean, he didn’t write it?”

  “I mean, he didn’t write it. He doesn’t know anything about it.”

  “How do you know?”